


Oathbound

by Swampbunny25



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Femdom, M/M, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:14:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21677320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swampbunny25/pseuds/Swampbunny25
Summary: F!Inquisitor Trevelyan and Cullen find themselves with a good deal in common- including a few rather personal proclivities. Falling in love is never easy, but always worth it.----------Respectful of canon, and is mostly character study.
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Leliana/Josephine Montilyet, Sutherland - Relationship
Kudos: 12





	1. Prelude

The room was stuffy and hot, despite its lack of a complete roof. It was furnished in a spartan fashion — a desk covered in notes, letters and maps; two fireside chairs; a dangerously over full bookcase and a long extinguished lamp stand were all that decorated the bottom floor of these officer's quarters. A fire burned in the grate, casting long shadows against the scrubbed wood floor. Cullen was sleeping, deeply but fitfully, in the large wingback chair nearest the flames. The dim light made his already craggy features appear even sharper and the pain written across them more obvious. 

Beads of sweat trailed down his brow, and his flushed skin glinted damply. "I can't. I.... I don't want to... please, no. It's not...please..." Lyrium withdrawal made his recurring nightmares even worse, and now he was forced to relive his days of torment in Kirkwall's Tower nearly every night. The degradation...the humiliation, the pain, and the crushing hopelessness of the past plagued his mind.

Outside of the tower, however, the night was rather chilly: a crisp, clear evening lit by stars and soft moonlight. On nice nights like this, Inquisitor Anya Trevelyan would walk the battlements. Like much of the Free Marches nobility, Anya had a strikingly pale complexion; her eyes were a soft dove grey and her hair platinum. From far away, the uniformity of her coloration gave the strange impression that she was a featureless entity, an outline without definition. A compact, voluptuous body was the result of a few drops of dwarven ancestry on her mother's side. She liked the peace, the beauty, and most of all the silence— an occasional muffled cheer from the tavern below or cough from the night watchman notwithstanding. Her position as leader of this movement seeking to restore order against the chaos of two rebellions, a demon infestation, a civil war, and of course an ancient Magister who fancied himself a god, meant life was filled with constantly evolving crises. From angry nobles to rogue beasts terrorizing the land, her days were constantly filled with people. Far from unsociable, Anya nevertheless needed quiet time to herself to absorb and process the day’s events in order to be an effective leader.

The Inquisition had only begun occupying Skyhold, an ancient Elven fortress, in late winter; now the dawning spring had yet to shed its cloak of frost. Nestled high in the Frostback Mountains, Skyhold was long abandoned when Solas, an apostate mage who pledged himself to the cause, suggested it as their new home. The structure was enormous, with a defensible motte and bailey design. She was not yet completely familiar with the castle and its fortifications, and had little idea of where her compatriots lived —she was reasonably sure of where her closest friends, Dorian, Varric, and the Iron Bull lay their heads at night, but beyond that, not a clue.

So, when on this particular nocturnal stroll she heard someone cry out in the darkness, it jolted her out of her reverie and into action. She padded swiftly and silently across the chilly flagstones towards the sound. Although her bow was locked safely in her quarters, Anya was never unarmed. Anya’s small, deft fingers curled around the dirk at her hip. She loosed it slightly from its scabbard and stopped to assess her surroundings in a shadowed corner beneath the central watchtower. 

_ Could the sounds simply be someone sick? Or even a nocturnal liaison gone wrong? _ She strained her ears. 

"Stop, stop, oh Maker, oh Andraste, please help me, it's not my fault..." 

The voice was low, definitely Ferelden and male, and its words tumbled out in an uninterrupted torrent like a mantra. Whatever the cause of such outbursts, this person clearly needed assistance. She passed through the ruined chamber inside the first central tower and listened again on the other side. Nothing now. She wondered if that was a good thing or a very,  _ very  _ bad thing. After waiting in the shadowy open door for a minute or two and hearing nothing but the mountain wind, Anya exhaled and sagged against the wall. _ After all, wouldn't the soldiers on watch have done something if there was a true emergency? _

A full throated, howling yell ripped through the night. It was absolutely coming from the second central watchtower directly across from her. In loping, powerful strides Anya made for the door. She threw it open, dagger drawn and body coiled for attack. Her jaw dropped.

Cullen was curled into a tight ball on the floor. He sucked in deep, ragged breaths, strangled groans escaping cracked lips. His eyes were tightly shut, and Anya was not sure if the trails that ran down his face were sweat or tears. 

"Cul- Commander! Commander are you alright?" she asked, swiftly kneeling down beside him. No response was forthcoming. "Commander Cullen?" she gripped his shoulder tightly, insistently trying to shake him awake. 

"Stop..." he whispered. Unsure if he was addressing her, or whatever plagued his mind, she eased her hold on him, still studying the tortured face beneath her. "Anya...my lady, where...oh Maker, I am so sorry." His eyes were still shut, but at least his face was not as twisted in pain. 

"What's wrong? Are you sick, ser? I can fetch a healer straightaway, just lie still and — " 

"No!" he barked with surprising force, considering his state. Anya was taken aback. She straightened up and sat back on her heels. 

"Ser, you are in clear distress," said Anya, whipping off a leather glove and feeling his burning forehead with the back of her hand, just as Anya’s mother had done when she herself was struck with a childhood fever, "and I cannot in good conscience allow you to go untreated." 

Cullen grabbed her hand, brusquely brushing it away from his face. Anya's breath caught, electricity shooting through her at the unexpected, intimate touch. The hair on the back of her neck stood up, and a warm buzzing sensation, not unlike the one from her Mark, coursed through her. The Mark was a sliver of green, glowing light under the skin of her left palm, imbued with magic from the realm of the Fade. Slowly, and with evident effort, Cullen released her hand and opened his eyes. He looked up at her searchingly, but clearly his mind was still mostly in the Fade. "Healers can't help this sickness, my lady... no one but the Maker himself can. And he does not listen to me... at least not anymore." He withdrew his hand and slowly turned to roll onto his other side, leaving her speechless. She stared at his back, watching his breathing return to a regular rhythm. The silence stretched between them, punctuated by crackling pops from the fire. Without turning back to face her, he softly implored, "Please, Your Worship. Leave me. I will be fine. I give you my word." 

Anya felt lost for words. She wasn't sure exactly what was wrong, but she understood demons from one’s past haunting one’s present. She considered promising to check on him in the morning but knew such an offer would be politely, but firmly, rejected. She stood up, and looked around his office.  _ Nothing of comfort here _ , she thought. Undaunted, she climbed the ladder to his private quarters. A well loved, handmade quilt was thrown messily over the large bed in the center of the room. She squinted— _ No pillows? _ —making a mental note to send up a pair tomorrow. 

She grabbed the quilt, climbed down, and gently placed it over Cullen's now peaceful form. In his sleep, he grabbed the quilt to pull it up around his chin, looking ten years younger without the ever-present deeply furrowed brow. Hesitantly, she reached out to smooth his fair hair away from his face. Before she could stop herself, Anya trailed her fingertips across his cheek, which sported a day's worth of stubble. A soft smile faintly touched his lips, and she withdrew her hand as if burned. Holding her breath, she exited Commander Cullen's office, refusing to yield to the powerful temptation to look back.


	2. Research

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there's a beginning, a GBFF, and a bum.

"—and the border dispute between Nevarra and Tevinter is looking dicey," Leiliana exhaled sharply, staring down at the War Room's grand map. "As far as I can tell, these are our most pressing concerns." She turned to address Inquisitor Trevelyan, but Anya was obviously lost in her own thoughts, hunched over the Orlesian area of the table with glazed eyes. The spymaster coughed pointedly. 

Anya jumped and exclaimed, "Please forgive me, Sister. I was still thinking about... our lack of communication from the forward scouts." 

Ever perceptive, Leiliana raised a sculpted auburn brow, following the line of Anya's gaze to Cullen's calloused hand, long fingers worrying over one of his operation markers. "Indeed, my lady. Shall I. . . recap our debrief?" 

"Please," replied the Inquisitor, grateful for the Nightingale's generous cover of her lapse. 

It had been four weeks since Anya found Cullen in the throes of Lyrium withdrawal— although she was yet unaware that was the cause of his episode—with his carefully constructed air of invulnerability utterly stripped away. The two of them had yet to address the encounter and its potential effect on the Inquisition's army. Before all of this, Anya had found him intelligent and pleasant, if a bit aloof. He had been the one to spot her unconscious body amidst the swirling blizzard after their escape from Haven, and was instrumental in her rescue. Once ensconced in Skyhold, he had even taken her aside and promised her to never let another stronghold fall as long as he was Commander. 

Now, though, Cullen was studiously avoiding her gaze, and the few interactions mandated by the demands of leadership were distant and formal. Anya, however, could not stop herself from trying to catch his eye, to have him at least acknowledge that the experience had occurred. She also found her thoughts occasionally drifting unbidden to the jolt in her gut that his brief touch elicited, and her overwhelming compulsion to gather him into her arms and protect him from his pain. Turning to face Leiliana, she wrested her thoughts back to business and, this time, she listened carefully to the report. 

When the meeting concluded, Cullen left as quickly and directly as possible without outright running. He brushed past Anya, muttering, "Pardon." He maintained the pace all the way back to his office, slamming the door behind him. Cullen stalked around the room, pacing aimlessly until slamming his fist against the stone mantle above the fireplace. A snarl grew on his lips, his breathing quickening until he could not stand it. "FUCK!" He threw himself into the old chair his sister had had sent from the estate in South Reach. It had been his father's study chair and still smelled ever so faintly of his beloved pipe tobacco. 

He buried his face in his hands.  _ How could he have let this happen? How?  _ Anya—no, he corrected himself, Inquisitor Trevelyan—had seen him at his absolute weakest. He was finally under control again, finally putting the past away, and now this one moment had ruined everything.

While his exact memory of the encounter was fuzzy, he knew he had fallen into his recurring nightmare and must have made enough of a commotion to have been heard through the thick stone walls of his quarters. He remembered her face above him, his name on her lips lifting him out of the half remembered tortures and back to the present. He knew he'd managed to refuse a healer, and that he woke up covered by Mother's quilt, despite being in no fit state to retrieve it himself. He glanced at the still untouched linen requisition bag in the corner. It contained two goose down pillows, and nothing else. 

He groaned, another wave of embarrassment crashing over him like a tsunami. He knew Anya had sent them up, and he knew that meant she had entered his private quarters to retrieve the quilt and seen the pathetic state of his room. Cullen stared, defeated, into the embers of the dying fire. He felt hot suddenly, and tugged at the buckles of the breastplate across his chest. Despite the safety of the mountain fortress, he wore the armor daily as a reminder to his soldiers of both his authority and the need for constant vigilance. He tossed it aside carelessly, newly installed armor stand ignored. Normally Cullen was neat to the point of fastidiousness, but he was overcome with despair, certain he would be summarily relieved of his command and dismissed.  _ And rightly so _ , he mused darkly,  _ for what is a failed templar other than a liability?  _

He got up and walked to his desk, extending a trembling hand to open the bottom drawer. Inside lay his lyrium philter. Still shaking, he reached for it, but at the last second, balled his fist and let his arm drop limply to his side. His anger was spent now, leaving behind only a hopeless numbness. If his decision to leave the Order—to give up the power which flowed from the source of Templar ability, thereby freeing him from its chains— had cost him the Inquisition, then he damn well better not abandon that choice now.

\-------------------------

"I always know when it's you coming up the stairs, darling," drawled Dorian. Of her companions, Anya had known him the shortest amount of time, yet he was her closest confidant. 

"How's that?" replied Anya, rounding the corner into his alcove of the library. 

"Two reasons. You take the steps in an odd pattern, two at a time, then one, then back again. And you make no attempt whatsoever at being quiet." He peered at her over the top of his book. Dorian was a powerful necromage who had entered a self-imposed exile from his homeland Tevinter, far to the north, to assist the Inquisition. Devastatingly handsome, with caramel colored skin and dark flashing eyes, Dorian was also a truly brilliant researcher and an invaluable asset. "What are we doing today then, killing a dragon? Looking for magic skulls to peer through? Slaughtering my countrymen by the dozens?" 

Anya pushed some books off an overstuffed pouf and sat down heavily. "Worse. We're thinking." 

Dorian gasped in mock horror. "What an absolute travesty. If today is a thinking day, then why are you here gazing at the most charming man in Thedas?" 

Anya swallowed. "I need your counsel,"—a wide, mischievous smile spread across the mage's tanned face— "and your confidence!" she added quickly. 

Dorian snapped his book shut with one hand and fixed her with a roguish stare. "Really now? Why mine, specifically? Is this some Tevinter business...some drinking business...?" he asked expectantly, gesturing for her to jump in anytime. 

"It's...complicated? History, magic, and interpersonal skills business." 

Dorian blinked. "That's a lot of business. Shall we decamp to somewhere with a little bit more privacy?" 

"Oh Andraste's tits yes," she blurted. 

Dorian cackled, eyes flashing. "Right then. I'll rendezvous with you in your quarters at dusk." He extricated himself from a cocoon of scrolls, books, and grimoires and made to leave. 

"Anya?" 

"Hmm?" 

"How much wine should I bring?" 

"...A lot."

\-------------

As promised, the Inquisitor and the not-quite-Magister met in her quarters after a quiet dinner in the great hall. Skyhold was not hosting many guests at present, so mealtimes were casual affairs served from communal vessels for the time being. As Anya shut the door behind them, Dorian held up a bottle of deep, burgundy wine and waggled his eyebrows suggestively. She laughed and grabbed it, climbing the stairs in her strange way and flopping down on the soft bed which dominated the expansive room. 

Bottle clasped to her chest, she rolled about while whining, "Everything is hard, and I want to get piss drunk." 

Dorian fell backward next to her. "You sound like me, and frankly it's disturbing and I won't have it." He plucked the bottle from her grasp and tossed it into the air. It hovered there a moment before sailing over to her desk and decanting itself into two waiting glasses. "Sit up, we can't have you staining one of your nicer blouses." She obeyed, pouting, and held out her hand. A wine glass flew to it. "Now," said Dorian, settling in with his own glass and leaning against the closest bedpost, "What in, as you so eloquently exclaimed, Andraste's tits, is going on?" 

Anya took a deep breath, as though preparing to dive into the sea. 

"SomethingweirdhappenedwithCullenandIdontknowwhattodo." 

Dorian stared. "Come again?" 

She shut her eyes tightly, took a generous swig of wine and repeated, "Something weird happened. With, um, Cullen—C-commander Cullen, that is—”

"No, I thought you meant the kitchen boy!" said Dorian dryly. 

Anya shot him a poisonous look. "And I don't know what to do. AND YOU CANNOT TELL ANYONE!" she burst out, wagging an aggressive finger at the mage, who now resembled a Harlequin mask. She gasped in sudden realization. "Not like that, Dorian! Maker's breath, we're a bit busy for one," she said, gesturing all around vaguely. "We hardly know each other, for another," she added quietly. 

"Pity," he replied, and took a loud sip. 

"If you're quite finished?" 

Dorian stopped slurping. 

"You know how I like to take walks at night? Well, a few weeks ago it was really lovely out, so I decided to do that. Picked the battlements so I could see the stars, right?" Dorian nodded, following along. "Well, I kept hearing snatches of what sounded like...screaming, and crying and such. So of course I wanted to know what was happening. I snuck around in the shadows ‘til I found where it was coming from. It was Cullen's quarters in the east central watchtower." Dorian's face was unreadable. He waved his wine away and leaned forward intently. He steepled his fingers, resting his chin on them in a pose of concentration. "I didn't know that at the time though. I just burst into where the sounds were coming from. Dorian, he was delirious. I found him on the floor covered in sweat a-and, tears I think, and he was clearly in horrible pain. All he told me is that a healer couldn't help and that...the Maker doesn't answer his prayers." She looked away and took another drink. 

Dorian did not reply for several moments. "Did you touch him?" he asked abruptly.

"Dorian, I already said it wasn't like that," she answered with rising frustration. 

"No, no, no," he waved the answer away. "I ask because I wanted to know if you'd felt anything if you had done so. I believe I know what's happening, but I require more information." 

"I checked his temperature, and he grabbed my hand after. I did feel a kind of tingle in my arm? But that could just be the mark. I also felt a sort of swooping sensation in my belly." 

Dorian looked at her thoughtfully. "I am nearly certain he is withdrawing from the cessation of lyrium ingestion. This is extremely serious...such a choice drives Templars to madness or suicide, nearly without exception. I wonder why he would do such a thing, now of all times." He stood up and crossed to her desk, scribbling on a blank scrap of parchment. "It's all there, the delirium, the fever, the aphasia. The magically reactive skin." Dorian tapped his quill against the inkwell. "I need to do a bit of reading, my pet. I will apprise you of my findings in the morning." 

"What? You're leaving already?" Anya's voice was tinged with disappointment. 

"I would not leave your exalted presence so quickly unless I had to, my lady. This is possibly a matter of some urgency, and I'm glad you confided in me." With a flourish of his cloak the young Lord descended the stone steps to the great hall. "Oh, and Anya?" he called up to her, "The feeling in your stomach from your little bout of skin to skin contact? That was lust. Not magic." Despite no one bearing witness, the Inquisitor’s cheeks and ears flushed hotly, and she covered her face with a pillow in embarrassment. 

\----------------------------------------------

Dorian was as good as his word. He slid a stack of parchment across the long table, narrowly missing Court First Enchanter Vivienne's poached eggs. Most mornings she still had one foot in the Fade, but Anya snatched the papers up quickly, stuffing them unceremoniously into a leather satchel. Vivienne eyed Anya curiously, like a hawk inspecting a rabbit, her eyes scanning the Inquisitor's face for clues to this odd behavior. Waving her fork like a wand she asked, "What's all this, now?" 

"Research," replied Dorian and Anya in unison. 

Vivienne's already raised eyebrows now threatened to disappear into her hairline. "Alright, keep your secrets. But I will find out eventually. I always do, my dear." On that ominous note, she rose and sauntered away to do whatever it was Vivienne did most days. Unable to suppress it any longer, Dorian burst into gleeful giggles. 

"In all seriousness," Dorian sighed, wiping a tear of mirth, "there's absolutely no reason for you to be acting like this, except in deference to his privacy, I suppose." He twirled an errant moustache hair into place. "Even if you didn't want to climb that fair specimen of man like a tree, as Commander in Chief of this institution you'd be duty bound to find a solution to this issue, for the sake of your army." 

"Is that the sort of comment you should be making loudly at breakfast?" Anya shot back. Lowering her voice, she continued, "And besides, that IS why I'm so concerned. For the sake of the men. Just because I happen to... respect... the Commander, there's no need for such... unbridled speculation." She arranged her face into the countenance normally reserved for petty bandit kings, thugs and lowlifes. 

Dorian did not take the bait. "Well either way, you're welcome, darling. Let me know how it goes."  
  
Anya shoved a piece of toast in her mouth and made a beeline for her quarters, clutching her satchel to her side as though it contained primed gaatlok. Hopefully Dorian had found a cure for Cullen's symptoms and not just further information. She sank down onto the divan and began to read.  
  
 _Notes on Lyrium and its Effecte on the Body of Man_ _  
_ _By Magister Vicinius Ralus_ _  
_ _  
_ _Lyrium, the blue element which grows vinelike in the very deepest roots of Thedas, grants the knights of the Templar order their power. They grind it into a fine powder, mixed with a solution distilled from the petals of the Embrium herbe, and ingest the mixture through various means. An initiate must drink, but as time passes veterans often push it into the veins with a hollow needle._  
  
Anya paused, shuddering. Despite having endured darkspawn attacks, vicious demon possessed beasts trying to kill her, and most frightening of all, courtly intrigue, Anya hated needles.   
  
_Indeed, the knights' oath of lifetime service is required partly because of this practice. Once a body has experienced the power, and pleasure, of lyrium it will not revert to life without it without considerable revolt. Should a knight cease his practice,_  
  
Anya rolled her eyes —"his" — when was this written?  
  
 _he will suffer greatly. The first day without it, a light fever will begin to spread. The second, uncontrollable muscle contractions will wrack the limbs and the fever will worsen. The third day, however, is when the true trial begins, for on this day the knight must do battle with his own mind. Hallucinations, distressing memories and disembodied voices will begin to plague him. All symptoms will worsen over time, and the knight is now in serious danger of death._  
  
Now Anya was alarmed. At what point in this process had she seen Cullen? As of dinner last night he was still alive and competent as ever.   
  
_Should he endure this for five days without expiring (and sadly, most do not) the knight is beyond immediate mortal danger._  
  
Relief washed over her like cool water.  
  
 _But, he is not beyond suffering. These afflictions will plague him for the remainder of his life, coming and going seemingly without rhyme or reason. Knowing this, it is virtually unheard of for a knight to quit the order. Therefore, a templar is little more than a willing slave to the Chantry, bound to serve it for good or ill, lest it take away his lyrium._  
  
Anya grunted in frustration. This was all well and good but where was a solution? This treatise made it sound like nothing could be done. She looked at the next document, this one in a hand she fondly recognized. Dorian had written her a note in looping cursive.   
  
_My pet,_

_ The majority of what I could find was like the enclosed—it seems most healers were content to simply accept the notion that lyrium addiction is untreatable. Ridiculous. In a single night, I, Dorian of House Pavus, altus of the Imperium, was able to learn enough about the properties of lyrium and Embrium to at least create a tonic to alleviate symptoms.  _

_The cure yet eludes me, but at least Ser Serious won't be in agony. If you look in your nightstand, there's a sachet of herbs with which to make a tea. You're welcome and no, I will not tell you how or when I got in._ _  
_ _  
_ _Your friend,_ _  
_ _Dorian_ _  
_ _  
_ _Postscript: lovely nightgown, samite suits you._  
  
Torn between irritation and amusement, Anya stood and retrieved the medicine. She sniffed it—truly foul— and felt grateful the tincture was not for her. Sighing, she offered a silent prayer of thanks to the Maker for sending her such an excellent friend, not to mention researcher. Now came the hard part— giving it to Cullen. 

\----------------------------


	3. A Night To Repress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Manly fun and games and drinking! Smexual tenshun occurs! They're getting closer!

Dusk crept into the courtyard, casting her long shadows across the packed earth. From his office, Cullen watched his troops drilling in the sparring ring. He had begun to see the tower as something of a de facto prison; command left no time for anything except planning, reading, and strategizing, and he was rarely able to leave it. He wished to be down there with them, drilling, laughing, moving. He felt staid, soft, and out of shape. Beyond that, he was exhausted. Nightfall and sleep only brought nightmares, never rest, so he forced himself to stay awake for days at a time so that once he finally did collapse, his body was too spent to betray him.

An idea began to roll around in the back of his mind. Since he would be awake all night regardless, why not spend it getting back to fighting form? Although there would be no one awake to spar with, he would at least be out in fresh air pumping some blood through his veins. 

The incident with Inquisitor Trevelyan a month prior was another contributing factor to his self-imposed seclusion. Subconsciously, he worried that if she caught him in some moment of idleness, she would summarily dismiss him. She should have already, really. By Andraste's grace, he had managed to avoid another relapse, but there was no way to know if or when the next fever would strike. Cullen would have been mortified if anyone found him in that condition, but the fact that it was Anya—the woman touched by Andraste herself, blessed with intelligence, strength and grace—was so appalling he could barely think about it without crumbling. Her respect for him must have evaporated, and surely all that kept him in command was her concern his removal would cause instability in the ranks. His unwillingness to put himself in her presence any more than absolutely necessary—what if she wanted to talk about it?—led him to take his meals in his room.

There was a light, insistent knock of the southern door to the office. Sutherland, the enthusiastic, if a bit naive, recruit Anya had adopted in the Hinterlands, had been functioning as Cullen’s errand boy. The lad was far more suited to such a task in lieu of soldiering (his temperament reminded Cullen of nothing so much as a mabari puppy) and he was the only person Cullen had entrusted his secret to. Sutherland, however, had in turn smartly decided to tell the night watch, in order to prevent an inadvertent, more public revelation of the situation arising. The men were loyal and devoted to their leader and swore never to speak of it. 

“Ser it's me, I've got supper. It's mutton stew, smells real nice." 

"Thank you, Sutherland," called Cullen. "Enter." 

The door opened to reveal a tray bearing a steaming bowl of stew, along with hearty bread and a cheese wedge, beloved Ferelden comfort food. But the tray was hovering, not borne by anyone at all. Cullen stuck his head out and looked around. 

Bollocks, he thought.

"Surprise! It's us. We wanted to make sure you're not dead," crowed Varric, breezing in with Dorian and Iron Bull in his wake. A more bizarre trio would be difficult to find . Handsome, human Dorian, an altus of the Tevinter Imperium; Varric Tethras, a famous dwarven archer and author of many popular books; and the one-eyed, giant, horned mercenary captain: the one and only Iron Bull.

"How did —what —how did you make it sound like Sutherland was at the door?" sputtered Cullen. 

"Honestly I'm a little offended, Cap," said Varric in a perfect impression of the Commander's valet. 

"Oh. Of course," said Cullen darkly.

"So, Curly, what's kept you holed up in here like a virginal princess?" inquired Varric, chewing loudly on a hunk of bread. 

"I would prefer you call me Ser Rutherford. Or at least Cullen."

"No can do, Curly," interjected Bull. "You're a part of this merry band of fools, and that means nicknames."

"You got to pick yours though."

"Special case considering I don't actually have a name."

"....that's fair." 

Bull grunted in acknowledgement. 

"Now that the pleasantries are concluded can we please eat? Some of us were out killing varghests today you know," said Dorian as he scanned the sparse surroundings. "Do you seriously not have a table?" 

"I do, but..." he trailed off, gesturing vaguely toward the ceiling. 

"Cullen, are you inviting us to bed?" Dorian asked, looking him up and down with frank appreciation. In fact it would be difficult to find someone who wouldn't eye Cullen with enjoyment. Tall, strong, and ruggedly attractive, with a thin yet striking scar slashed across his upper lip, he resembled a fairy tale prince after a long, merciless streak of hard luck. Without realizing it, the Commander had also perfected the fine art of stubble length; a day's worth of gilded growth, no more, no less. 

Cullen was vaguely aware he was good looking, but he was at heart an introverted, conservative person, and his romantic history was short, painful, and several years in the past. A forbidden affair with a fellow knight ended abruptly, as most teenage romances do. As a grown man, he had loved the Hero of Ferelden from afar during the Fifth Blight, as her heart belonged to another, and there weren't enough whorehouses in Ferelden to make him forget her. His time in Kirkwall had been too chaotic for anything but survival. He’d certainly been propositioned a time or two, but he was never one for casual encounters with non-professionals, and cited the Order as an excuse. True, Templars could marry, but they required dispensation from their superiors and most of the knights remained single for life. Besides, there was never really time or opportunity to pursue a normal, not-born-of-extreme-conditions relationship. His life had always been about honor, faith, and service, and even now, a year after leaving the service of the Chantry, he always comported himself with dignity a bit of distance from the rest of the Inquisition. 

Varric and Bull laughed as the tips of Cullen’s ears turned bright pink. He hated how easily his fair complexion gave him away when discomfited. Attempting to save face with a clever comeback, Cullen replied "Not tonight, I'm afraid, Lord Pavus. That's just where the table is." 

"Ah, I see. Another time perhaps. Either way, up we go," said Dorian as he sent the tray soaring up to the loft.

The motley crew scrambled up the ladder one by one, a reluctant Cullen last. By the time he got there, Bull was stretched out luxuriantly on the bed with one of Cullen's undershirts hanging from his horns, tossed there by Varric, who was busily investigating the contents of his personal trunk. Dorian was sitting elegantly, legs crossed, at his small table. "One chair? Cullen, darling, do you know what a friend is?" 

Cullen stood there in sullen silence, furiously trying to come up with a way to extricate these... people... from his personal space. Dorian cleared his throat expectantly.

"Oh, I heard you Dorian. I just refuse to dignify that with a reply," said Cullen. 

"If you keep that look on your face it's going to be permanent," said Varric. "Now, we all know you like to be alone. Working. Alone. But... well, we're going to be in this together for the foreseeable future. And you are rather crucial to keeping it from all falling apart, so here we are. We didn't show up empty handed either." 

"Yes, I appreciate your bringing supper. Thank you." 

"Not that, grumpy. That was just an in, you'd never have opened the door for us." 

You're not wrong, thought Cullen. The dwarf reached into his tunic and pulled out a bottle of Colovian aged brandy. 

We've got him now, thought the old rogue, noting the sudden glint of poorly repressed interest in Cullen's honey brown eyes. "A little bird told me you had a rather particular drink back in Kirkwall. Hard to get, all the way up here, but I pulled a few strings." 

"I...thank you, Varric," said Cullen, reaching for the dark amber liquor.

"Ah ah ah," said Varric, pulling it back with a smirk. "Sharing is caring."

"Quite," replied Cullen. He sighed in resignation. "Please, gentlemen. Make yourselves, ah, even more at home." 

"Don't have to ask me twice," said Bull as he removed his leather harness. 

"Tits out and it's only eight o'clock," teased Dorian. 

"You're very naughty, Dorian. I believe you’ve earned a spanking," growled Bull, eyes filled with sudden hunger. 

"Don't threaten me with a good time," the mage replied, not missing a beat. 

Cullen pondered whether the tension between the Qunari and the Tevinter was a result of the constant war between their peoples, or if was because they wanted each other in a more-than-colleagues capacity. He was never very good at discerning this sort of thing, particularly between members of the same sex. Not that he cared a whit, he was just... not perceptive, especially in matters he was unfamiliar with, which included love between men. 

"Who's up for a few rounds of Wicked Grace?" asked Varric with a grin. Cullen couldn't help letting a tiny smile slip. Varric barked out a raucous laugh. "I knew it. Once a soldier always a soldier." 

"I may have been known, at one time, to be a competent player." 

\------------

Anya couldn't sleep. She tossed off the thick down comforter and rolled onto her stomach, splayed out like a starfish in her smallclothes. If she didn't light a fire, the autumn air would make her tower room unbearably cold. But with a fire lit, it was uncomfortably warm, even with cracked windows. She groaned into her pillow. It must be nigh on two past midnight, and tomorrow she would attend a memorial in honor of those lost at Haven. Her arm hurt, as it so often did now. The green glow of the Mark seemed to flicker like a star. She hated that Mark with her whole being. 

Things were going fine before the Conclave. Well, maybe not fine, she thought as she recalled the four rejected marriage proposals, the explosive fight with her father after the last one, and the subsequent announcement of her intention to become a bard of the Orlesian court going over like a fart in the Chantry. As Lord Bann Trevelyan’s only daughter, Anya was a very important bargaining chip. 

Anya Trevelyan’s mother passed away when she was eleven from the Fifth Blight, so the little Lady was brought up largely by nannies and governesses. When they were all still children, she and her brothers were inseparable playmates, but as time marched on, their closeness faded away. The boys got to continue learning about the world beyond the castle, and Anya was “prepared to become a good wife”. The mantle of A Good Wife was, however, the one she wanted to wear least. If she wasn't skipping lessons to practice with her bow, she was hidden somewhere on the grounds with a stack of books, maps, and scrolls. Nevertheless, she still enjoyed most of the traditionally feminine pastimes like embroidery and dance, which occasionally gave her minders the false hope she was coming around. 

It wasn't that she didn't want to fall in love someday, it was that Anya wanted so much more out of life than hosting tea parties and having children. She was gregarious, sharp, endlessly energetic, and a little brusque, and she knew in her soul her destiny lay elsewhere. Consequently, if she had a sovereign for every time her teachers compared her to an animal or a boy, Anya would be the richest woman in Thedas. Marriages create and confirm alliances, and by twenty-six she was still unwed and had refused every eligible bachelor in the Free Marches. Pledging her life to a man she felt apathetic towards at best, and loathed at worst, simply so her family could have more land was just not going to happen. They already had plenty. Besides, becoming a bard is a perfectly acceptable occupation for a young noble, she thought. After all, it's what Josephine, (the Inquisition's charming representative to all of Thedas, and heir to the House of Montilyet) did before becoming a diplomat.

As the minutes ticked past it became increasingly clear that sleep had fled for good. Her eyes snapped open, focusing on the stone ceiling. She sighed and hopped out of the oversized Orlesian four-poster, undersheet still wrapped around her foot. She grabbed a pair of halla leather pants and a plaidweave tunic off the floor, dressed quickly, and dug around for boots in a sturdy cedar chest. She thought, with no small satisfaction, how horrified her father would be at this disaster of an outfit. Trotting down the stairs she pulled a bright green cloak around herself. Anya needed a bloody walk.

\----------------------------------

Cullen stood on his bed, shirtless and swinging the brandy bottle with abandon. "And can you believe it? After all that, the blighted thing just fell down and died of exhaustion." With a dramatic gasp, he collapsed forwards in mock death throes. His companions, also in various states of undress, (save Varric of course) roared with laughter. 

Several empty bottles of conscription ale rolled around the floor, dredges dripping onto the Wicked Grace cards strewn about the room. Varric now occupied the lone chair, a pile of gold, trinkets and clothes on the table in front of him. Dorian leaned against the far wall, wearing his magisters cape like a bathrobe. Bull, sitting on the floor beside Dorian in only his small clothes, grabbed his abandoned trousers and rifled through the pockets. 

"Alright Curly, you proved me wrong. I'm impressed." He flicked a gold coin to Cullen, who caught it easily. 

"I told you I wasn't always like this. When I was in the ranks, I always lead the charge, no matter where we were headed. Into battle, to the tavern," Cullen chuckled, his smile suddenly fading, "but one shouldn't dwell on the past, I suppose." He pocketed the coin. "Lucky I still have pockets on me, innit?" He flashed a cheeky grin at the Qunari. 

"Don't sass me, little man. I still have boots and small clothes to bet and morning is a long time yet."

"Honestly I just think you want everyone to see you naked, amatus," said Dorian silkily. 

"Not everyone," replied Bull, sliding a massive hand up the mage's leg. 

Well that clears that up, thought Cullen. How peculiarly sweet, an exiled Tevinter and a Qunari Tal-Vashoth falling for each other. He shook his head. Once the sky explodes nothing seems too strange anymore. 

The brandy Varric had brought was a truly excellent vintage, but unbeknownst to all but the dwarf, there was an extra ingredient: a few drops of Wyvern Tears. For Anya's sake, her boys concocted a plan to get to know the aloof Commander and find out the truth behind his seemingly bizarre choice to quit lyrium. Every time the bottle was passed round, Varric only pretended to drink, because Wyvern Tears induced openness and honesty. Thus, as the hours passed and Cullen, Dorian and Bull became progressively drunker and uninhibited, Varric remained sober and calculating. From the boasts, jokes, and banter, the shrewd dwarf began to at least piece together a loose picture of Cullen's life. The merchant's son from Honnleath left home to join the Templar Order at thirteen. A devoted student, and later a reliable and well liked soldier, Cullen’s career progressed quickly. Present at Ostagar for the Fifth Blight, Cullen proved himself exceptional. In just fifteen years he had risen through the ranks to become Knight Commander Meredith’s right hand. He was instrumental in preventing further violence during the mage rebellion by eventually standing against her, and assuming her place as Knight-Commander. But something happened back in Kirkwall — he'd been captured by abominations who imprisoned and tortured him for days in the tower gaol. Upon reaching this part of his story, Cullen abruptly changed topics, asking Dorian about the Templars in the Imperium. 

"Well, I for one am calling it a night. I always pull out when I'm on top,” said Varric smugly, pushing his winnings into a knapsack.

"How funny, Cassandra told me the same thing!" Dorian cackled.

Varric looked at the mage baldly and replied, "Very funny, but I'm just not that lucky. The only woman in my bed is Bianca." He patted the eponymous crossbow fondly.

"Mmm. Of course. If word got out Seeker Pentaghast spent her nights on her knees..." Dorian paused, "...somewhere other than the Chantry, it would cause quite a stir." 

"I really wouldn't know." 

"Of course, of course." 

Varric stood up, stretched, and bade his companions good night. 

"I think I'll also head out," said Bull as he pulled on his trousers, generously left behind by Varric (though the rogue did take the harness— it looked expensive.) 

"In that case," said Dorian quickly, "I'd better leave you to your peace, Commander." The mage swayed slightly on his feet. "You're actually quite charming, Ser Serious. Be that way more. Like in public. And in front of the Inquisitor." 

Cullen choked on a mouthful of brandy (also magnanimously abandoned.)

"Come on you," said Bull, taking Dorian's arm and steering him towards the door. He glanced back at a coughing Cullen and whispered "To be fair, he's got a point. She's happier when you're around." With that, Bull seized a laughing Dorian in one arm and descended the ladder with the other. 

After a moment Cullen crossed to the window, searching for the forms of his new friends. Bull was now practically carrying Dorian as the two of them headed toward the keep, ostensibly going to the mage's small library room. Varric looked to be moving toward the tavern barracks as expected, but at the last moment he veered right, disappearing into the shadows of the foundry. "You sly dog!" Cullen exclaimed in wonder. Perhaps Dorian was right after all. A burst of light from the quickly opened foundry door revealed the dwarf waiting to be let in. Suddenly a hand shot out, grabbing Varric's shirtfront and pulling him inside. Cullen could have sworn he heard a low voice rumble "Good evening Seeker," but perhaps it was only his imagination filling in the gaps. 

It had been several years since the Commander last tasted his beloved brandy, and he may have pushed it a little hard as a consequence. Alone again, he felt deflated and empty. He resolved to fulfill the promise he had made to himself so many hours ago to exhaust himself in the ring. He slid down the ladder, grabbed his sword from behind the desk, slipped on unlaced boots and headed out.

\------------------------------

Anya sighed contentedly, clutching a steaming mug of hot, freshly pressed cider. The morning kitchen staff was always at work by three preparing for six o'clock breakfast. They never minded when she popped by for a chat and a snack—a blessing, because Anya was perpetually hungry—nor did they comment on her choices in loungewear. She was on her way to her favorite stargazing spot, the yet to be repaired western watchtower. 

Puttering along the battlements, she was surprised to hear someone drilling in the sparring ring. The dedication of her people consistently amazed her. Smiling, she peered over the edge to see who it was. Hmm, nobody she recognized straightaway— Shame, he’s obviously in great shape. Anya squinted.

"Maker's breath," she swore, swiftly ducking down out of sight. Of all the bloody people in the entire Inquisition it was Cullen. Without a shirt. Alone. Because of course it was. She had prayed for an opportunity to just talk to him, person to person, to explain it was fine and that she just wanted to help. It seems Andraste had answered with a wicked sense of humor. "Ugh," she groaned, remembering what she must look like— flaxen hair in a messy bun, eyes ringed in yesterday's smudged eyeliner, persistent zit (wasn't acne supposed to be gone in your mid twenties?) prominent on her chin, and wrapped in an ugly felted cloak over mismatched clothes. 

She thudded her forehead against the wall. This was probably her only chance, and she was nothing if not determined. Steeling herself, she scrambled up and headed down to the courtyard. Blood pounded in her ears. Why did this jumped up Ferelden rustic make her so nervous? It made no sense. Nobody made her nervous. Possessing minimal instinct for social (or physical, for that matter) self preservation was a contributing factor to how she got into this situation to begin with. 

Since her two older brothers were busy being Important Men and her father's gout was beyond healing, Anya Trevelyan was summoned to represent Ostwick at the Conclave. After four grueling hours of nothing happening and sitting still, she'd decided to go stretch her legs... in some off limits areas of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Boredom, curiosity and a disregard for rules she deemed foolish meant she was an accomplished lock picker. 

Once she finally got the door to the Divine's private courtyard to pop open, (Dwarven locks— expensive and hard to pick) she breezed in… only to interrupt the ancient darkspawn, Corypheus, as he sacrificed the Divine Justinia V in a horrific blood magic ritual. Cast into the Fade by the resultant blast, which she later came to learn killed everyone else present, Anya searched desperately for a way to escape the now nightmarish spirit realm. Atop a steep hill made of bones, the glowing figure of a woman appeared; she reached out to Anya, trying to save her from approaching demons— and suddenly Anya was lying on the ground amidst the destroyed Temple, with a magic imbued hand and the sky above her ripped open. After discovering her marked hand could seal the rifts between the realms which stemmed from the sky breach, Anya proved she wasn't responsible for the Temple tragedy by sealing every rift they came across. When Cassandra Pentaghast, a powerful Chantry Seeker and Anya's initial rescuer, declared the Inquisition reinstated by Divine writ, Anya gratefully contributed herself to the cause, destroying rifts and restoring order from the Lost Oasis to the Storm Coast. She without hesitation risked her life to save their first home— the town of Haven— from Corypheus and his army. Finally, her leadership of the people on their pilgrimage through the mountains to Skyhold convinced the rest of the Council that it was Anya whom the Maker had ordained for the mantle of Inquisitor.

She was only a few yards away from him now. She looked around; they were alone. Now or never. "Uh. Do you like cider?"

"Andraste's tits!" yelped Cullen. He whirled around to face her. 

"Just noticed you were here, and I wanted to talk to you, and I, um... have cider," she finished lamely. She had only ever seen Cullen in armor or formal dress— even when she came upon him sick he still had a leather jerkin protecting him. Seeing him like this now, up close, she wondered if it would be within her power to order him to never wear a shirt again. Broad shoulders supported sculpted arms, and his torso showed the faint memory of abs, now covered by a tiny layer of pudge. She bit her lower lip— her great weakness was a fuzzy navel and his was perfect. 

He stared at her, eyes bugged. "Inquisitor Trevelyan!" Dropping his sword, he seized a rag hanging on the ring post and covered himself. It looked pretty damn funny, this imposing man delicately clutching a tea towel to his chest. Unable to help herself, Anya giggled. Cullen's heretofore sheet-white face turned bright pink. "No no! It's just... you're very fit, why are you ashamed?" 

"I'm... not, but my lady, this is absolutely inappropriate and I sincerely apologize."

"Listen. Cullen. I hate formality and I hate titles even more. Please, please just talk to me like a normal person. You are my second in command, most closest advisor, and I barely know you. We never speak outside of the war council, and any time I try to talk to you, you disappear. All I want is for us to have an open and honest working relationship so we can effectively address things that come up. That includes last month." With that, she thrust her mug into his hands, forcing him to drop the towel.

Anya looked up at him imploringly. Cullen felt his chest tighten, the directness of her gaze catching him off guard. She was always pretty, but without her armor and makeup she was somehow ethereal and difficult to behold, like starlight made flesh. Nothing makes a person sober quicker than shock, and Cullen was stone cold. "My lady, I confess I was trying to remain distant. I was concerned I'd made a fool of myself beyond repair, and that if you would want to speak to me it would only be to relieve me of my Command. Before that, I was simply respecting... boundaries, what with you an unmarried young lady, not to mention the messenger of heaven..." he trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck and looking away. Anya rolled her eyes. 

"Okay then. Spar with me." She threw her cloak aside and knelt down to lace her boots. 

"Inquisitor, I- "

"Commander, I don't tolerate insubordination. Even from you." 

Cullen opened his mouth, and shut it again. "What discipline would you like to practice, my lady?" 

"Close quarters combat. One way or another, we're getting over this wall you've built."

"I hardly think that's appropriate, Lady Trevelyan!" Cullen sounded genuinely appalled.

"If you refuse me again, then you will be relieved of command," said Anya quietly. It was the first time he had ever heard such icy edge to her voice. Anger shot through him; she was deliberately disrespecting him, forcing him into a no-win situation against direct protest. Alright then, he thought, jaw set and nostrils flared, I'll honor her request. He set down the mug and backed up a few paces to the edge of the ring. "At your leisure my lady." 

She was surprisingly fast and very precise, opening with a lunging strike to the ribs. He'd assumed she wouldn't have such honed melee fighting skills— in battle, Anya was a stealthy archer, using the terrain and camouflage to her advantage at range. Caught off guard, Cullen had the wind knocked out of him. He caught her hand at the next hit, twisting her arm to disable her, but she slipped out of his grasp and tossed an elbow at his jaw. He threw up his guard at the last second, catching it painfully on the lower forearm. Alright, that’s bloody enough, he thought, letting out a growl of rage. He shoulder checked her hard, knocking her off balance, and exploited the opening with a leg sweep. Contorting to rebalance herself, Anya lashed out with a rough kick. Cullen dodged it easily. It was all coming back as though he'd never missed a training session. 

His entire being— mind, body and soul— felt more alive than it had in months; nothing ever beat the rush of combat with a truly challenging opponent. Anya grinned at Cullen, feral and deadly. It made his already thumping heart race. “You like winning, Ser Rutherford. Good to know.” Cullen smiled thinly back, but didn't reply. He knew this game. 

They circled one another, eyes locked, each trying to predict the other's next move. Cullen had already determined she could not be beaten unless he accomplished two feats— he needed to get her into a corner first, then on the ground. They were evenly matched in skill and wit, so the only advantage to exploit was raw strength. The challenge would lie foremost in executing the plan without her realizing what was happening. Cullen charged forward with a flurry of punches, advancing every time she dodged. So far, so good. Then Anya launched herself backwards, flipping over the ring fence into the shadow of the castle walls and landing on her feet. Now Cullen's smile was genuine, broad and open; she was falling into his trap. “Come and get me,” she called, crouching down into a ground combat stance. “As my lady commands,” he demurred, sauntering forward as if he was taking a stroll in a meadow. He even walked all the way around to exit the ring at the gate, taking his time, latching it gently. He walked up to her, reducing his pace to a crawl. Their eyes locked again, expressions mutually inscrutable. He kept advancing until they were centimeters apart, Cullen simply standing there, Anya swaying like a cobra on half bent knees.

Silence bathed in tension. 

Looks like she rumbled me, thought Cullen. New plan, simpler plan. Lightning quick, he grabbed her wrists and pinned her backwards against the castle wall. With a shout she kneed him square in the solar plexus, forcing his grip to weaken long enough for her to free herself and duck down. She darted behind him, threw her locked arms over his head, put a boot in the small of his back and pulled, crushing his throat against her bent arm, and thus forcing her full weight to come down on his windpipe, painfully immobilizing him. He grunted in frustration. Cullen reached an arm up across his chest and grabbed her under the shoulder. In an elegant single motion, he doubled over, pulled hard, and she was thrown off and onto the dirt. He dove after her, pinning her to the ground with his entire weight. She wrapped her legs around him, wrenching and wriggling to reverse the pin but it was no use. Cullen’s head was swimming with thoughts of what it would be like to kiss her, touch her… he didn’t even know he could still feel physical desire like this. The two halves of his mind were arguing loudly. Nose to nose once more, he lowered his lips to hers, and at the very last second, closed his eyes and whispered, “I win.” 

“Are you sure?”

Cullen felt a cold blade press suddenly into his wrist; Anya had a small, sharp knife hidden in her sleeve the entire time. In a true fight, no matter if he let go or kept restraining her, he would lose— the vein would be quickly severed. He'd been had. 

Time then stood still for a moment. The instant she smelled his pheromone laden sweat, Anya's body rebelled against her mind, hips rising and pressing into Cullen's, back arched, every inch of her skin yearning for his electric touch. She felt his breath catch, his hips responding to the invitation hers just extended. He opened his eyes, and she noticed for the first time their unique and beautiful color, like amber in morning sunlight.

As unexpectedly as it had stopped, time resumed, and Cullen let go of her, looking away while scrambling backwards and onto his feet. “You're an extremely impressive opponent, Inquisitor. It's an honor to serve you.”

Anya stood up and brushed dirt and grass off of her clothes. “Thank you. Such a statement from a knight as renowned as yourself is high praise indeed.” She peered at him. “You've got a little, uh…” she pointed to a swath of dirt on his cheek. “Oh, thank you.” He rubbed it off on the back of his hand. 

“Alright. Good. Now we actually know each other. Fighting is the fastest way to get to know a person; well, aside from fuc-” she stopped suddenly and looked at him sheepishly. He actually chuckled at that. 

“My first year in the Templar Academy, my roommate was a lad from Ostwick. Funnily enough he said the same thing. Must be a Marcher expression,” he said with shrug.

“Cullen are you...telling me a charming anecdote? Andraste preserve me, it's a miracle!” 

“Don't get excited, I don't have many others.” Cullen let out a long slow breath. “I apologize for my past behavior. I will be a more approachable, open colleague in the future.” He gave a short bow. “Thank you for the practice, and the cider.” Cullen retrieved his sword and the mug (long since gone cold) and walked away stiffly towards his quarters. His back, slick with sweat and mud, glistened like a marble statue in the moonlight, and his trousers were just tight enough in all the right places.

When he was safely out of earshot, Anya muttered “Hate to see you leave, but love to watch you go.” 

Cullen kept walking, unable to wipe the grin off his face. He was full of life, wrapped in a warm whiskey blanket, and sporting a hell of a hard on. And he was not, in fact, out of earshot.


	4. A Strange Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friends now. Maybe. PLUS! More Bull/Dorian.

Sutherland trotted up the stone stairs at a healthy clip. At midday, the Inquisitor had summoned him (him!) to her office. She gave him an important task— deliver an urgent note to the Commander. Sutherland arrived at the east central tower and knocked on the wooden door. No response was forthcoming, so he knocked a bit louder. Still nothing. “It's just me sir. I promise for real this time,” called the valet.

Again, silence. Sutherland was concerned, —  _ was Ser sick again? _ — so he tentatively entered the quiet office. 

_ All of Cullen's possessions, including his boots are here _ , thought Sutherland,  _ so Cullen must also be here _ .He scanned the ladder to Cullen's private loft with trepidation, but his concern for his commander swiftly overcame any fear of disrespecting boundaries, and he ascended the ladder. 

Sutherland beheld quite a sight. The debris of the previous evening’s merrymaking littered the area, and Cullen’s trunk was flung open, its contents strewn about the room. As for Cullen himself, he was deeply asleep, laying facedown on top of the old quilt in nothing but muddy trousers and snoring softly.

“Ser Rutherford?” said Sutherland nervously. If he didn't know better, he would say the commander was sleeping off a hangover, but that would be ridiculous. Cullen mumbled something that sounded like “muffins,” but again, Sutherland was fairly certain that Cullen neither dreamed nor ate food other than army rations. Sutherland tried again a bit louder. “Um, Ser Rutherford? Commander?” 

Cullen, eyes closed, sleepily replied into the quilt, “Tell Father the horses can wait twenty more minutes.”

“Ser, it's Sutherland… I, uh… you need to wake up. The Inquisitor requests your presence.”

“The what?” He rolled onto his side and looked at the valet blearily.

“Inquisitor… Trevelyan?”

Within seconds Cullen was awake, out of bed, and pulling on clean clothes. He was uttering a stream of profanity the likes of which Sutherland had never heard, and hoped to never hear again. Without pausing to say goodbye, Cullen was gone. Very fuzzy, piecemeal memories were trickling back, and each one made him more embarrassed than the last. He barreled through the castle, eyes straight ahead, heart pounding in his chest. This was it— the end of his career.

He despaired at his stupidity and weakness. Unprofessional, overly familiar fraternization with three of his subordinates all in a single night; getting drunk; and literally fighting the Inquisitor herself.  _ Maker, what the hell was I thinking rolling in the dirt with her like a common brawler? She asked for practice, not a bloody wrestling match. _ It was some heady mix of moonlight, alcohol, restlessness, and, if he was honest with himself, his desire for her that created this situation. He hoped his dismissal would at least be quick and clean.

He strode through the Great Hall avoiding everyone's curious gaze and entered the Inquisitor's quarters. He cleared his throat and called up the stairs, “My lady, I am here as requested.”

“Enter,” said Anya.

Cullen climbed each step as though fighting quicksand. The end was inevitable, but no less horrible for it. He reached the landing and turned to see Anya sitting at her desk, scribbling away on a piece of parchment.

“Have a seat,” she said without looking up.

Cullen sat. Early spring’s birdsong and the scratching of Anya's quill cut the thick silence. After a minute or two, she let out an exasperated sigh and looked up from her writing. She smiled, and his stomach flipped. She was so radiant. 

“Sleep well? I know I did!” she asked cheerfully. Cullen was starting to feel confused. What was this? Some sort of request for an admission of guilt?

“I slept… too well, in fact, My La-”

“CULLEN. Titles. Unnecessary.”

“-Anya.” 

“Thank you, that wasn't so hard right?” 

He shook his head.

“Anyhow. I wanted to tell you I had something made for you. Dorian figured it out actually! He is such a treasure,” said Anya fondly. Cullen recalled the previous night, and questioned if ‘a treasure’ was wholly accurate. “It’s a tea in fact. We know what's going on, you see. So Dorian developed this to ease your pain and help you sleep.”

In every potential scenario Cullen had played out in his mind, absolutely nothing like what was actually happening came to pass. Once again caught off guard, he merely nodded. 

“Are you alright? Oh! Do you need some of it now?” asked Anya with obvious concern. 

“No! No, I'm fine, simply… having a strange week,” replied Cullen. He cleared his throat. “I need to apologise for my unconscionable behavior last night; I admit I had been drinking, and—” 

“Cullen,” she interrupted, gently this time.

He stopped.

“Why are you so, I don't know, cold with me? Have I wronged or offended you? If I have I am deeply sorry,” she spoke in a soft, sad voice. 

Cullen, at that exact moment, realized what was happening within him. His first thought:  _ Oh bugger _ ; his second thought:  _ You could never hurt me unless it was to send me from your side.  _

“Lady Trevelyan, I could  _ never _ be offended by you.”

“Alright you know what,” she broke into a mischievous grin, “if you don't stop calling me by titles, I'll bloody give you one for me and you'll hate it. Just Anya.”

“Alright then, Just Anya.” The corners of his mouth twitched.

“Bad jokes? Ok, you're definitely getting passed the wall now,” she said with a chuckle. “Anyway, the other reason I asked for you, was to tell you that I support your decision to end the use of lyrium.” Anya's voice was serious now. “I know what it is to need to shed a past and patch the wounds. I read Leiliana’s dossier on you, and if leaving lyrium behind gives you peace, then by all means continue to do so. My only desire, is that you should communicate your condition to me every so often. I trust you understand,” she said, looking suddenly every inch the powerful leader she truly was. 

Cullen looked a bit thunderstruck. “Of course. I really cannot, cannot even begin to thank you… for all of it…” 

She waved a hand airily. “Don't praise me for only doing what's right. One of my deepest irritations will always be people wanting a prize for not being horrible. Decency shouldn't be a virtue; it should be a given.” 

Cullen was impressed.  _ How depressing _ , he thought gloomily,  _ she's even more perfect.  _

“Right, so, here it is—” she slid a sachet across the desk to him, “All you need to do is steep it in boiling water, as one generally does for tea, and take it as soon as you feel an episode coming on. Once you've used it just let me, or Dorian, actually, know.” 

“I will. I thought there was nothing you could do for lyrium withdrawal… where did he find this?”

“Oh he didn't find it. He made it. Apparently they either know something in the Imperium we don't, or he actually is as brilliant as he says.”

Cullen smiled, recalling how cocky the mage had been the night before. Dorian was a masterful shit talker. “Well as you see him more often than I, please thank him for me.” 

“Of course I will.” Anya was beaming. “I appreciate how fast you arrived, by the way. Can I ask about the casualwear revolution? Trousers and a shirt today, just trousers yesterday, but full ceremonial armor every day before that.” 

“I… overslept.”

“Ah, last night, of course,” she purred.

“Please let's just forget last night,” said Cullen with rapidly pinkening ears, “I was acting the fool. Stress, or something.” 

Anya's face was wearing an expression he couldn't identify. She looked at him directly and replied, “Frankly, I'd rather not. I went to bed, and by the time I fell asleep I was quite satisfied.” 

_ What did that mean, _ thought a bewildered Cullen. Because it sounded like it meant… but that was not even slightly what she must mean. That isn't possible. She must mean she considered the strategies of their match and found them satisfactorily applicable to an upcoming challenge. His mind flashed to the brief moment when time stopped— the heat of her, her grey eyes heavy lidded and full of lust. Her body pressed against his. Maker, the effort it took to control himself was herculean in the face of her parted lips. No. He must have misread that in his intoxicated state. A tiny voice reminded him he was sober by then. He told the tiny voice to go fuck itself.  _ Remember your place. She is beyond you and always shall be.  _

“I'm happy to be of service, My L- Anya.” 

“He  _ can _ change! Praise heaven!” laughed Anya. “I won't keep you any longer—”

_ I wish you would _ , he thought.

“—particularly if the morning got away from you. The war council convenes this evening to discuss threats against Empress Celene, and you're welcome to join me for dinner after.” 

“I am not sure if I can stay for dinner, but I will of course be at the council. I am gravely concerned about the situation in Orlais; I have met Duke Gaspard and he is a viper.” 

“That's the impression I got also, but he has extended us an invitation to next month's peace talks at the ball in Halamshiral. It seems likely that is the night the assassin will strike. Therefore we accepted graciously.” 

“Wise, Inquisitor. I wish you every success in preventing a disaster.” 

“Hmm? Oh,” she chuckled, “you're coming with. Handsome, powerful and unwed? Oh you're most certainly coming. You'll be an excellent distraction. Or bait.” 

He inhaled sharply, opened his mouth to say something, and stopped himself. His purview, and final authority, only extended to strictly military matters. Refusal would be outright insubordination. He nodded in assent. “I don't suppose you'd change your mind if I asked?” 

She smirked. “Probably not. What would you do for me if I did?”

Before he realized the words were leaving his mouth, he replied, “Depends what you're after.” 

The smirk widened. “I'll have to think about it. See you this evening.” 

With that, she returned to her work. When Cullen reached the stairs, Anya stopped him, “A moment, Cullen.” 

He looked over his shoulder. “Yes, Inquisitor?”

“Oh nothing. Just stand there, need measurements for your formal dress uniform,” said Anya. 

“Er, should I turn around?”

“Nope, got the measurement I needed. You may go.” 

A memory of last night resurfaced— her parting comment— and a warm, sustaining little glow flickered to life within him: a tiny, happy truth to cling to.  _ At least, _ he thought,  _ she likes my ass.  _

\-------------------

“Dorian.”

“What, pet?” 

“I like him.”

“I know.”

“How obvious is it?”

“How obvious are Bull’s horns?”

“I see.”

Dorian and Anya sat next to each other on a cool, stone bench in the shady Chantry courtyard. Both looked straight ahead, taking in the beauty of the garden. Golden afternoon sunlight filtered through the canopy of leaves, and birdsong cheerfully disrupted an otherwise silent space.

“Anya.”

“Mmhmm? 

“I think I've gone and done something rather stupid.”

“Uh-huh?”

“I told him I wanted more than a fling.”

Anya gently lay her head on her friend's shoulder. “And?”

“Needed to think about it.” 

She nuzzled in against Dorian, and replied, “Then don't despair yet. It's a pretty… bold… proposition. A Qunari and Tevinter, both men, living openly as lovers? I think it's smart he's giving it thought. If he just said yes immediately, without stopping to think about what that would mean, that wouldn't have been a very good sign. At least to my eyes.” 

Dorian turned and kissed the top of her head. “Since you're usually right, I will take that as a positive sign. I've never properly thanked you for helping me with the business with Father. I'd given up hope of repairing our relationship after what happened when he discovered my little secret, but now… someday. We could reconcile, in time. I'll always be grateful for it.”

“I'm very glad.”


	5. The Exception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit gets real. Rating should be changed, but I am new to AO3 so if someone could kindly let me know if this is not marked explicit I'd deeply appreciate it.

The next fortnight seemed to fly by. Preparations for the upcoming visit to the Winter Palace for Empress Celene’s summit with her rival for the throne, Gaspard de Chalons, and the ambassador for elvenkind in Orlais, Briala, were underway. The Inquisitor and Cullen had embarked on a burgeoning friendship now, and, if not a full visit, at least a greeting was exchanged every day. Little by little, the wall was crumbling. Anya teased the Commander relentlessly about his propriety, and Cullen’s terrible jokes made the Inquisitor her eyes roll every time; with every laugh each grew more comfortable with the other. Over games of chess they opened up to each other about their families, pasts and interests, now and again dropping in a flirtatious comment or touch.

The Winter Palace would be hosting a ball as a backdrop for the true drama of the power struggle for the throne. The invitation was extended to “The Inquisitor and a Retinue of No More than Six (6)” and with only ten days to go Anya needed to make her choices in companions. Her three advisors, Cullen, the spymaster Leliana, and the ambassador Josephine, were givens, but she was torn on who should occupy the remaining slots. She'd eliminated Sera, Cole, and Solas for fairly obvious reasons— thievery, not being actually alive, and apostasy respectively— but was now left with a difficult choice between bringing friends and bringing influencers. Cassandra would hate every second, but was also royalty. Varric would be utterly charming, but possibly cross the line of decorum. Vivienne seemed like the most obvious choice due to her already being a member of the Court, but could she be counted on to kill a friend if necessary? Dorian was persona non grata as a Tevinter, but would behave perfectly due to his own noble background. Blackwall… who the hell knows. Iron Bull could be unfailingly polite, and as a former Ben-Hassrath Hissrad (an elite spy) he could read the room in seconds, but racism against the Qunari was strong in Orlais. 

A gentle knock interrupted her internal debate. “Come in,” she called. 

“Hello, Inquisitor,” replied Josephine. “It is myself and Leiliana.” 

“Oh wonderful, I need some help with deciding who to take with us to Halamshiral. Is Cullen available? He should have a say also.”

Leiliana giggled, and Josephine smacked her arm. The entire castle was ablaze with gossip about the Inquisitor and her general, encouraged in no small part by the Spymistress herself. “I'm afraid the Commander is indisposed today,” she said with a significant look. 

Anya graciously ignored the laughter and said, “I see. I'm sure I will see him later, no matter. Come, let's enjoy the fresh air on the balcony.” She resolved to visit Cullen after dinner and bring more tea. 

The three women tentatively decided on Dorian and Blackwall, but were stuck on the third person to choose. After an hour of lively debate, Josephine pulling for Vivienne, Leiliana championing either Bull or Varric, Anya announced she would seek Cullen's opinion before deciding officially. 

“I suspect I know who he will choose, but I do get surprised now and again,” said Leiliana. 

“Try to select your companions by tomorrow, Inquisitor. We still have so many preparations… travel arrangements, garment tailoring, gifts for individuals within the Court… please, let me know as quick as you can,” added Josephine. She glanced out the window. “Dinner is in half an hour, and since it's the Marquise de Avenfort tonight we need to, ah, spruce you up a bit, Anya.”

A quick change and a fresh application of makeup later, Anya was lost in her own thoughts at the head of the great hall table whilst the Marquise droned on about her dislike of elves. They needed to both acquire her support and not appear to tacitly agree with her views on elfkind, which the Inquisition actually fiercely opposed. In order to prevent herself from being overcome by rage at the comments (it would lead to verbal or physical assassination if she let herself absorb it, and generally you can't get money from the dead) Anya allowed her thoughts to wander freely.

As was often now the case, her thoughts went to Cullen. She was worried for him. She'd told Josie and Leiliana about Cullen's condition, and instructed Sutherland he was to alert herself or one of the other two women should an episode arise, so she knew what the ladies had meant earlier.  _ What if the tea doesn't help, _ she thought,  _ or Maker forbid made it worse? Would he be hurt long term? Was Sutherland taking care of him?  _

After three excruciating hours of small talk, artfully placed gossip, and excellent food, Josephine managed somehow to extract an offer of support from the Marquise. Anya forced herself to stay another ten minutes, and then graciously took her leave.

Upon reaching Cullen’s office, Anya felt a stab of uncertainty. Although their relationship was vastly improved, the Commander was still an extremely private, reserved person, and she was hesitant to push him into situations he did not want to be in, such as being cared for while ill. He was so clearly discomfited by being seen as anything other than an invulnerable, unreachable general. Yet, sometimes, she felt such a tender sweetness in the man that she couldn't help wanting to break down the facade. “Cullen?” She didn't hear anything on the other side of the door… hopefully, a good sign. Anya quietly opened the door, and slipped in silently in case he was sleeping. Her intention was to leave the sachet and be gone before he woke, but that was not to be.

Cullen was sitting by the fire in his old, leather chair, gazing into the flames, elbows resting on his knees. He turned to her and asked “Is this a dream? I can't tell anymore. It's the third time you've shown up now.”

“Would you prefer it if this was?”

“Yes,” he answered simply. 

Cullen had oscillated between dreams, hallucinations and painful wakefulness for more than a day now. The tea had helped for the first twelve hours; it allowed him to at least get an hour or two of true sleep between the bouts of horror. He saw his worst memories play out in front of his eyes, again and again, while whispered half remembered demon voices mocked and threatened. Twice he looked to the door to see Anya, only to watch her disintegrate to dust the first time and transform into a grotesque abomination the second. What he beheld now was too good, too pure to be real… Anya in her spring green gown, wild, wavy hair struggling to escape its style, standing there with a face radiating compassion. 

“I just want this to be over. Not that I want to off myself… but if I find myself dying… I don't think I'll care all that much,” he said flatly, turning back to the fire. It was at its nadir just before dying to embers, and the redness of the glow cast an otherworldly eeriness to the tower.

Anya's heart broke. This man had given his entire life to serve others, over and over again, and in return Fate repeatedly dealt him painful, difficult situations. He never even had a complete childhood; the Order takes children and he had joined at thirteen. The weariness in his voice was too much for Anya, and she felt her eyes sting with tears. What little pretense of disinterest and resistance to her attraction to him that remained dissolved away; all that was left behind was a ferocious desire to possess him.

“Is this a good dream, Cullen?” Anya asked. She felt herself walking toward him despite never instructing her limbs to move. Anya was no sexual neophyte, but she wanted him in a way she couldn't recall ever experiencing before— an unyielding, exquisitely painful need in body and soul. 

“I don't have good dreams,” he said. 

“Then wake up,” she whispered. Anya untied her hair, and carefully unlaced the outer layer of her dress, letting it fall to the floor and leaving her in only a semi sheer chemise. She fluidly straddled the chair, arms braced above Cullen’s head. He looked up at her, conflicted. Anya sank down into his lap, raising her knees to tuck them into the chair and pressing her hips into him. Cullen murmured, “This dream is the exception,” running his hands along her body from her outer thighs, across her hips, and coming to rest against her waist. He looked into her eyes and said, “I've had it many times, just never when sleeping.” 

“What happens next?” she replied, her voice husky and dripping with temptation. 

He responded by lifting the chemise above her head and tossing it aside. “Maker's breath,” he whispered, the surreality of this moment finally hitting him. Anya's body was stunning and all woman, generous hips, thick thighs, and full breasts. She was toned and strong from near constant physical exertion yet remained completely feminine. He wanted all of her, right now, but he wouldn't let this go fast— no, it had been so very long and dawn was distant. He was going to take his time. “Next, I make you scream my name.”

She smiled the untamed, wild smile that he loved best. “Show me how.”

Cullen grabbed her ass with one hand and slipped the other between her legs, tracing the juncture between her leg and pelvis. Anya’s skin was alive with the tingling, electric sensation created by the interaction of her Mark and the remnants of lyrium in Cullen's blood. His breath faltered, and with eyes closed he asked, “Are you sure this is what you want? I'm nothing, I'm broken, all I can give you is—”

She cut him off with a kiss. It was soft, lingering— a bow before a dance. She broke away, just barely, and whispered “Yes.” 

He didn't need to be told twice. In a split second he was returning her kiss, devouring her lust with abandon and slipping his fingers inside her. She let out a gasp of grateful release, grabbed a fistful of his hair, and jerked his head back to expose his throat. She dragged her tongue languorously from his clavicle all the way up his neck to his jaw. She paused to kiss him lightly while releasing her grip on his thick hair, and her tongue resumed its journey by tracing the scar which slashed his cheek and upper lip. Anya bit Cullen's ear, and she felt his his cock throb, straining the thin trouser fabric to its limit. Encouraged, she rolled her hips forward to get his fingers deeper inside. Cullen chuckled quietly, “So that's how you want it.” He rubbed his thumb across her slick clitoris, adapting his technique in response to her movements and sounds. Anya was lost in pleasure, surrendering to primal desire as he skillfully coaxed her towards orgasm.

“More,” she demanded, eyes smoldering with white hot intensity. 

His touch slowed and softened, threatening to pull her back from the edge. “Say my name,” he countered. Cullen knew exactly what he wanted. His lips lowered to tease a stiff and sensitive nipple, fingers resuming their speed and pressure on her throbbing sex. 

“Cullen!” she gasped, fumbling to untie his trouser fly as fast as possible. He withdrew his sopping fingers from inside Anya, and, holding her gaze, licked them clean. A desperate whine escaped her burning lips, and in a throaty voice she murmured, “I need you.” Cullen seized the moment to take off his shirt as she resumed working quickly to free his stiff cock. 

After a few seconds that felt like minutes, his impressive manhood was revealed. “Oh,” whispered Anya. A smile she had definitely never seen on him before spread across his face, and he grasped his thick cock and lazily began to stroke. Anya felt the power balance tipping swiftly in his favor, so she put her mouth to his ear and asked, “How long have you wanted to fuck me?” His breathing, and his strokes, quickened. She was back in control. 

“Always, in the back of my mind. Desperately, since that night in the training ring.” He teased her opening with the tip of his cock, sliding it back and forth, unbearably close to finally being inside her. “At your leisure, my lady.” 

Steadily, sensually, Anya lowered hips until he was completely filling her to the hilt. It was exquisitely painful, stretching her almost to tearing, and it was exactly what she needed. She pulled his body against hers, greedily running her hands over every part of him she could reach. She felt drunk on the amazing feeling generated by his skin, and noticed her Mark glowing brighter than it ever had since sealing the Breach. In response he grabbed her hips, the strength of his grip sure to bruise her alabaster skin, and thrust into her hard. Anya decided to really tease him, rolling her hips in a figure eight as she contracted around him. A rumbling, primal sound escaped Cullen’s heaving chest, and his hand resumed its urgent task of giving her release. His forward, conscious mind was all but gone, and his thoughts narrowed down to a singular focus— make her cum until she can't see straight.

Anya, coincidentally, had the same goal. She rode him like a champion stallion, relishing every second of the delicious, long awaited experience. Arching her back to get the angle  _ just _ right, she shuddered when he found her trigger. “Don't stop, I'm so close,” she breathed. Cullen sank his teeth into her neck and ramped up his speed. Anya whimpered in pleasure, her nails drawing blood as she held on for dear life, wave after wave of ecstasy coursing through her. “Cum for me,” she demanded, not bothering, or rather unable, to keep her voice quiet. 

Cullen obliged her magnificently, years of pent-up frustration, loneliness and rage fueling an earth shaking orgasm. Together they rode the aftershocks, surfacing from the ocean of mutual obsession. When it was over, Cullen kissed her, wordlessly expressing everything he'd been dying to say couldn't find words for. After a moment, Anya broke away and rested her forehead against Cullen's. An unspoken conversation passed between them, and Anya whispered, “Me too.” They stayed that way for a minute or so, savoring the comfort of their closeness now that the tension was gone, until to Anya's delighted surprise Cullen suddenly grabbed her around the waist and stood up. She instinctively wrapped her legs around him, and giggling, asked, “Want to do it again?”


	6. Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The introduction to this chapter is my favorite thing I have ever written

Poor Sutherland did not sleep that night.  _ Perhaps _ , he thought,  _ I’ll never sleep again _ . As Cullen's valet, he had his own small private room on the floor immediately below the Commander's quarters. It's never exactly comfortable to be aware of your boss' sex life, but it's another level of awkwardness to have firsthand knowledge of their preferred nomenclature of dirty talk and the sounds they make before climax. What had been heard could not be unheard.

He had grown hopeful when the sun began to rise, his ears no longer assaulted by rhythmic thumping and cringe inducing moans, but it turned out the quiet was merely an intermission. He shoved two pillows over his ears, praying for sweet silence, but it was no use. Whether or not he wanted to know, Sutherland was now aware of  _ exactly _ what they were doing, how they were doing it, and even what they planned to do next. Truly, he had no idea how he could look either one of them in the face ever again.   
  
Wearily, he rose and began to get ready for his day.

\---------------

The mid-morning sun was bright and warm, its rays shooting in through the holes in the tower roof. “What do you do when it rains?” asked Anya. She was exhausted, sweaty, and happier than she'd been in a very long time. She and Cullen were still in bed, still delightedly exploring each other and trying to decide just how long they could shirk their duties before being hunted down. 

“I just move the bed to the corner and put buckets down,” replied Cullen. He felt giddy, a tiny part of him still convinced this was just a dream. 

“Why didn't you say something?” she asked indignantly. “It would only take a few hours to fix this.” 

Cullen propped his head up, looked at her annoyed expression and laughed. “It just never occurred to me to ask.”

“Ugh, enough of that. That sort of ‘Woe unto me but yet my suffering makes me pure and holy’ thing. I'm having this taken care of immediately.”

“Sometimes I forget you're a noble, but then you can’t abide something as small as a leaky roof and I'm reminded post haste.”

“Listen here, peasant boy,” said Anya, grinning, “Just because I appreciate quality doesn't mean I'm delicate.” 

“Oh I'm well aware,” replied Cullen as he eyed the impressive collection of bruises revealed by the daylight with a twinge of guilt. “Did I, ah, go too far? Last night?” 

“Ooooh, no. No. Nooooo. Not at all,” said Anya. “I fully intend to go farther than that at some point when we've got time and privacy,” she said wickedly, idly tracing his fuzzy navel. 

His heart leapt. “Then this wasn't uh, just…” he stopped, unable to find words without sounding too dismissive or too needy. 

Misinterpreting his tone, Anya felt sucker punched. Struggling to hide her wounded surprise she replied, “Well, I thought it wasn't just going to be a one night stand, but I understand if that's what you want.” She was unable to conceal the hurt in her voice, and made to get up. 

Cullen wrapped his arms around her from behind, halting her departure. “Anya.” He moved her hair over her shoulder and kissed the back of her neck gently. “That's the last thing I want.” Anya clasped her hands over his, relieved.

Turning to face him, she said, “I don't want that either. I want...I… I'm not good at this. I mean, it’s obvious that I'm not exactly a chaste maiden, but because of who I am nothing’s ever gone past a fling. You… You're so  _ different _ from anyone I've known. You have genuine principles, and your belief isn't just lip service. You actually care about, well, everything. It makes me feel a bit out of my depth.”

“I feel the same. Well, minus the maiden part.” Cullen loved making her laugh, and she did giggle at that. 

“Good. Next time, my quarters though. More room for activities!”

“Did you just refer to passionate sex as ‘activities’?”

“I did. What's it like to be on the receiving end of a bad joke?”

“Rather nice,” said Cullen as he pulled her back into bed. “What did you mean by going farther, by the way?” As far as he was concerned no sexual option had been left unexplored. 

Anya looked up at him, unsure if he was joking.  _ Apparently not _ , she thought, studying his guileless face. “Bless your pure, romantic heart. You'll just have to wait and see then, won't you?” She tilted her head for a kiss but stopped. Anya's eyes widened suddenly. “Oh my Maker, I can't believe I nearly forgot! Half the reason I came by last night was to ask you who you think we should bring to the negotiations. The girls and I think Dorian and Blackwall, but we're stuck on the third person. Opinions?”

Cullen laid down on his back and put his hands behind head, thinking. “That's a very good question.”

Anya surveyed him appreciatively, wondering over her surprise and luck to meet someone in a situation like this. She fell for his soul, but his body certainly didn't hurt matters. “Not trying to interrupt, but I wanted say that you're bloody gorgeous, if I didn't mention that before.” 

He looked over at her, a slight blush appearing on his cheeks. “I can confidently say that you are the most beautiful woman I've ever known. I don't know what I did to deserve you, but I'm grateful for it.” 

She melted. “I'm pretty sure it's because you say things like that and you actually mean it. Do help me decide this though, or Josie will have me killed.” 

Cullen furrowed his brow.  _ Ah there's the brooding Commander we know and love,  _ thought Anya. “It should be Bull. They will underestimate him, think him a savage brute. They'll have no idea what he truly is.” 

“Done. I'm in total agreement. Our ambassador won't be pleased but she will understand, I think. Plus, how sweet will it be to see him and Dorian together at a ball! I hope they dance. Bloody hell, I'll need to tell the tailor immediately, he’s not going to be an easy fit for a dress uniform.” 

Noticing how bright it had gotten, Anya sighed heavily. “I think we've pushed our luck long enough, unfortunately. I have a feeling we're being looked for. Probably not the best way for people to find out, some foot soldier bursting in, waving around a report from Leiliana and getting an eyeful.”

Cullen took her hand, gathered her into his arms, and pressed her to his chest. She felt small, and it made her feel strangely content. He kissed the top of her head and asked “Is there a way you want them to find out? You're not...ashamed of me? My family is certainly comfortable, but Maker, about as far from noble as it gets an— OUCH! What was that for?!” 

Anya had pinched his nipple, hard. In a deadly serious voice, she replied, “Don't ever say that again. What on the Maker's green earth could I be ashamed of? Your integrity? Your good character? Your sterling record and brave choices? Your kindness, your looks? There is  _ nothing _ I care less about than if people disapprove because of our difference in station. You're a good man whom any woman worth a spit would be proud to be linked to.” She stared at him, eyes like a storm, conviction in every word she spoke.

Cullen's heart hurt, suddenly over-full of conflicting emotions. He put them aside for later examination. Rolling Anya onto her back, he climbed atop her, kissed her languorously, and murmured “Five more minutes,” tongue immediately returning to tasting her skin, his lips slowly working their way down her neck. 

Anya let out a half irritated, half aroused whine. “We can't, I'm leaving for Redcliffe at noon and— ah…”

His mouth had reached her chest now, tongue teasing a nipple. “You're horrible,” she gasped. 

“Oh, now I'm horrible?” he chuckled, self-satisfied. “I thought I was a good man.” Lightly, teasingly, he bit down, making Anya whimper. Her resolve was rapidly fading. Cullen's ran his fingers through her long, wavy hair, then trailed them across her body as lightly as a feather. She shivered in arousal and grabbed onto his shoulders.

“Fine… five more minutes…” she said, quavering voice betraying her. 

Cullen's soft lips and rough, sandpaper skin made a delicious juxtaposition of sensation. “As my lady commands,” he said, mouth pausing its progression only to answer her before resuming its trek down her body.

\--------------------

Within an hour of beginning the ride to the Inquisition's resident horsemaster, Dennett’s, farm in Redcliffe, Anya was starting to regret just how vigorous their exertions were the night before. Every bounce and jostle down the mountain made her already sore hips and thighs throb. The Inquisitor’s horse, a gorgeous roan Asharash brought at great expense all the way from the Qunari empire, was sure footed and steady, but even the gentlest steed alive couldn't prevent a bumpy descent.

Dorian pulled up alongside her, clasped her shoulder and declared it a lovely day for riding. She winced as the vigorous greeting jostled her in the saddle. “HA! I knew it,” Dorian proclaimed triumphantly. He leaned over to her, dropped his voice and in an uninterrupted stream hissed, “Nobody could find you or him all morning, and when I saw you emerge from that tower in yesterday's clothes, waddling about like a pregnant goose, I knew.” Dorian smugly righted himself. “I KNEW IT!” he yelled over his shoulder to a bemused Iron Bull.

Anya weighed her options. Cullen was likely to be embarrassed however word got out, so she decided to get it over with. “Cullen and I have started seeing each other romantically, yes.” 

“I win the bet, then,” replied Dorian. “Boys!” he called to Bull and Blackwall. “I win! Pay up!” The two warriors looked at each other and groaned. Dorian laughed sinisterly and intoned, “Never bet against the gay best friend.” 

_ Of course Dorian bet twice as much gold as everyone else, that smug, over-confident, know-it-all barbarian _ , thought Anya, nostrils flared and an oncoming twitch in her left eye.  _ A bet— Andraste save me, was it that obvious? _ She felt suddenly very exposed and vulnerable. 

Noticing her expression, Dorian laughed kindly and, this time gently, patted her shoulder. “Pet, I'm pretty sure the last two people to realize you were going to make the beast with two backs, were in fact the two of you yourselves.” Despite herself, Anya let out a small smile. 

“How many people were betting?”

“Us three, Josie, Leili, Vivienne, Krem, Varric, Sera, Gatsi, Sutherland, Knight Captain Barris, Flissa, aaaand…” he twirled his moustache thoughtfully, “oh of course, Cassandra!” 

“Cassandra?!” Anya’s jaw dropped.

“Quite enthusiastically, also to my surprise. She said the palpable tension was ‘distracting and wholly pointless as they clearly both want each other,’” said Dorian, miming the Seeker’s sneer of disdain and heavy Nevarran accent.

Anya threw back her head and laughed. “When did this bet start?”

“Hurm… since I win, and I'm week seven, seven weeks ago.” 

Anya blinked. “He and I weren't even really speaking then, though. I don't understand.” 

“Your voices weren't speaking. Your eyes were.” Sometimes, Anya forgot how perceptive and sensitive her friend was. He wore his wit like armor and wielded his tongue as a razor, but his true self was empathetic to a fault. 

“Interesting. Who had those first couple weeks, then?”

“I'm not supposed to say.”

“That’s rich,” snorted Anya. “Go on then, I won't say it was you.” 

“As if they won't figure it out. Week one was Sera, naturally. Cassandra, shockingly, bet week three… I must ask Varric how fast she pounced on  _ him _ …”

“Why are you so convinced they're secretly together? Half the time they seem to hate each other.”

“Exactly.”

“Oh, Dorian. I think this is one of the few times you're wrong. For heaven's sake, the guy sleeps with a crossbow named after his now-married ex.”

Dorian looked at her, a small tinge of sadness in his expression. “Love isn't always thrilling glances between beautiful ladies and handsome knights, pet.”

Anya was a bit indignant at that. “When did I ever say that's what I think of love? I'm not a shrinking violet or a foolish child. I'm aware it's complicated.” 

Dorian shook his head, melancholic nostalgia written on every feature. “That was unfair, I apologize. I just meant for some of us, the person we fall for, or the way we fall from them, isn't… it isn't clear cut. Varric and Cassandra have known each other awhile now, and their tète a tète is comfortable, safe for them. It's a way to balance the attraction, which discomfits them and ruins their respective images. Believe me, pet, I've been with several men who were less than sweet to me in whilst in front of others. Or were ashamed of their attraction to me.”

Anya pondered this, a mixture of anger, guilt and sadness in her soul. She'd been fortunate in so many ways, but never stopped to think about just how fortunate. To be unable to love openly, or to be uncomfortable on a fundamental, rather than situational, level in feeling that love, sounded like agony. Since their talk in the garden, Anya hadn't heard a peep from Dorian about how things were going with Bull, but she'd seen them talking and laughing often. A hot coal of anger grew in her stomach on Dorian's behalf; how dare Bull string him along, giving just enough to keep him coming back but not enough to make him happy. Well, that would not be continuing on her watch.

“You're right. And I am so sorry those arseholes couldn't see how lucky they were. Or how lucky he is right now, as the case may be,” she said carefully.

Dorian's eyes shone a bit, and he looked away, suddenly very interested in a passing fennec. 

“I'm still skeptical about those two specifically, though,” Anya added, the tenor of the conversation returning to playful.

Still looking away, Dorian guffawed. “Just wait. One of these days they'll leave a door unlocked and I'll be proven right yet again.” Squaring his shoulders, he took a sharp sniff of the fresh mountain air, and exhaled it slowly. Dorian flashed a grin at Anya over his shoulder, and asked “How do you think they do it, though? I mean, ergonomically speaking it has to be a challenge. He's not an especially tall dwarf, but I can say from experience they are,” he coughed lightly, “not proportionate with their small height. Still, she’s just  _ so _ tall!” Cracking up at his own joke, Dorian spurred his gleaming, black stallion on ahead, breaking into a gallop. Soon all that was left of him was a glittering laugh soaring past on the breeze. 

Anya slowed her horse a bit, letting Dorian get a bit of distance. When Bull pulled up alongside her, Anya's arm shot out barring his path. Eyebrow cocked, Bull turned and asked “Eh? What's up, boss?”

She slowly turned to him, unblinking and thin lipped. “Hear me now. I love you as a favorite uncle, but if you hurt him, I will rip a hole in the sky that will make the Breach look like a pinhole, and throw your ass so far down it you'll forget your own name. Understood?” 

Bull snarled and turned away. “Get off your fucking high horse, Anya. We're both adults and he's as likely to hurt me as I am him, alright?”

“Well have you actually told him that, or do you not learn to express love under the Qun? Not like you'd get practise anyway, a nation of motherless bastards,” she spat back. Anya's worst flaw was by far her hair trigger temper, which once ignited, could lead her to say truly regrettable things.

“You're really pissin’ me off, boss,” growled Bull. He had never spoken to the Inquisitor like this, so she knew she'd hit a raw nerve. But, still seething, she couldn't help picking at it.

“Good! Be angry. Stop stringing him along and commit. Man up. You're being so selfish doing this, and honestly, I question a lot of things I took for granted about you now.” 

“You have no idea what you're talking about,” he said in a low, hollow voice. Without another word, Bull kicked his horse into a gallop and was gone after Dorian. 

Minutes ticked by, and slowly the red mist lifted. Anya hung her head, guilty for letting her anger at a minor slight cause so much upset.  _ Andraste, please, don't let what I just did mess them up,  _ she prayed.  _ They can hate me forever but please, let them find rest in each other. _

She didn't hear Blackwall until he was right next to her. “Er, Lady Trevelyan?” prompted the Warden.

Anya wiped her eyes on her sleeve and turned to him, red faced and puffy. “Yes, Ser Warden?” Blackwall felt more comfortable employing formality, so as a gesture of respect, Anya always obliged him.

“I know what it's like to have a temper, milady. How once you're yourself again, you realize what you said or did, and want to take it all back,” said Blackwall kindly.

Anya sniffed and nodded in the affirmative, her composure now regained.

“Just be honest with him, and he'll see you didn't mean it. People can tell when an apology is genuine. It will be alright, I promise.” His blue eyes crinkled up as he smiled at her from under his thick black beard.

Anya returned his smile gratefully. “Thank you, Ser Warden. You give excellent advice, as usual.” 

“Eh, I've just made so many mistakes I actually started learning from them, Your Worship.” Blackwall was always cagey about his past. Because a person's criminal history, no matter how heinous, is wiped clean when they join the Wardens, Anya assumed he had committed crimes he now didn't wish to be associated with. Whatever he did in the past, he was an honorable Warden now, so she never pressed him on it.

“I don't care how you acquired your wisdom; I'm just glad you lend it to the Inquisition. And me,” she added.

Just as she'd watched Dorian do, Anya steeled herself, took a deep breath, and burst off in pursuit of her companions. Blackwall watched her fly down the road, the charger’s hooves churning the dust into an orange cloud in her wake. “Lovestruck, oversexed, soft brained bloody idiots, the lot of them,” said Blackwall to his horse. She nickered in agreement.

\----------------------------

Meanwhile, Cullen was receiving the simultaneously most terrifying, and most polite, interrogation of all time. Sitting around the coffee table in Josephine’s cozy office, the ambassador and the spymistress were inquiring after Cullen's pedigree, remaining family connections, views on marriage and children, political and religious convictions, and anything else personal they could think of. He felt rather like a small boy again, withering under the gaze of his instructors at the Academy.

“Cullen, if it's not too direct of a question, I must ask, how old are you? It occurs to me I have no idea,” inquired Josephine, feigning an air of casualness. 

“I’ll be thirty one next month. I know better than to ask two ladies the same question back, however.” Although he already knew the answer, Cullen inquired, “May I ask what this is all about?” 

Josie and Leiliana looked at each other and set down their teacups. “Anya. If I didn't know, I'd be a rather poor spymistress wouldn't I?” said the Sister. “As much as I wish the two of you every happiness, there must be contingencies in place should things go sour. Those require information. Most of the information was already in your dossier, but thoroughness is never wasted time.” 

The thought of a future in any capacity, good or ill, was not something he'd even begun to consider.  _ It's only been one bloody day, _ he thought.  _ Maker, what if it does go wrong, though? Could I follow her then? I could… I will, no matter the pain. I won't give less to the Inquisition than I did to the Chantry. _

“I understand,” said the general. 

Leiliana raised her eyebrows. “That's it? You're not frustrated or offended? Not indignant at me even thinking such a thing?”

Cullen scowled. “Well, I'm offended now I know that's how you thought I'd react.”

Sister Leiliana sat back against the couch cushion. “Forgive me. Sometimes I forget you're not the same man as the one I met in Kirkwall… he would've shouted at me for implying such things could ever happen,” she said, grinning.

“Any idealism I once had about people, even loved ones, is gone,” he answered bitterly. “As strongly as I feel for her, it could come to pass she tires of me, or we grow apart, or, more likely, die. There are no black and white answers or decisions. You're right to prepare for the possibility.” 

Leiliana squeezed the Commander's hand affectionately. She'd watched Cullen come into his own as a man, and felt somewhat maternal towards him. “Come on, now, there’s also the happy option, isn’t there? Everything goes well?”

“Of course that’s what I hope for.” Cullen continued, “Anya and I are able to exercise discretion. You don't need to chaperone us.” 

Josephine added, “Commander, I assure you neither of us wish to bear witness to your private moments, or believe that you or the Inquisitor are incapable of separating your work and personal lives. You're safe from that, at least. Our interest is merely in preserving the Inquisition.” 

“Quite. I must assure you both that neither Anya nor myself would ever put anything above the Inquisition and its mission. I am not interested, however, in further discussing our relationship in detail. It's far,  _ far _ too early for all these forward predictions and…  _ plans _ . I hardly think either of you would enjoy being scrutinized on literally day one of a public courtship,” said Cullen forcefully.

“Of course, Commander. Have you heard from your sister lately?” Josephine effortlessly changed the topic, diffusing the tension and displaying her acceptance of his pronouncement. 

“Funny you should ask, Mia did write!” he replied warmly. The conversation began to flow again. It was a new day for everyone.


	7. Halamshiral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There is no heaven,” his voice was barely a whisper, “but the one between your legs.”

_I hate this_ , thought Cullen. Upon reaching a position of prominence within the Templars and receiving a title in the process, Cullen had been introduced to interacting with nobility. It was not, he felt, an enjoyable activity. He avoided it at every opportunity— the double speak, the lies, the backstabbing, the nitpicking at every little glance and word— all of it was miserable for him. Unimpressed by finery or wealth, there was truly nothing for Cullen to enjoy at the Winter Palace. However, Anya needed him there, so off he went. They were nearly to the ornate, wrought iron gates of Halamshiral now. Cullen swallowed nervously.  
  
He and Leiliana flanked the Inquisitor as they rode in, their horses adorned in full armor and dressage. The goal was to present a unified, omnipotent front, so all seven members of the party were dressed in identical formal military uniforms. Cullen thought back to his tailoring appointment and smiled slightly. Anya had left explicit instructions that both jacket and trousers would need to be taken in slightly, and tapered at the waist. Although he was not pleased by the idea of being uncomfortable all night, he did enjoy how Anya thought of him as desirable. 

The past fortnight was a happy blur for both of them. It was a rare period of time wherein Anya was needed more in Skyhold than out in the field, and they made the most of it. Mindful of the need for careful curation of Anya's public image, their behavior towards one another anywhere outside of locked bedrooms and closets was, for all intents and purposes, largely unchanged, with the exception of taking meals together and the occasional chaste touch. Within the aforementioned private spaces, however, they were settling in to the openness and vulnerability of a new relationship. 

When he was with Anya, Cullen felt at peace, like his existence had actual meaning again. Even though he knew it was what he must do for the sake of his soul, the day Cullen officially renounced his Templar vows was the most painful of his life. The Inquisition, despite having his absolute commitment, could not fill the void left behind by the Order. But now, with Anya, Cullen had purpose again. To protect, support, and, for as long as she would have him, love her, was his reason for being. He believed in Anya both personally and spiritually; it seemed clear that the Maker had blessed their crusade, and the Inquisitor specifically. He had asked her what the truth of her Mark was, and her reply was that she truly didn't know. The last thing she remembered was reaching for the glowing figure’s hand, and she could not identify whom the woman was. Cullen privately felt that her honesty and vague recollections absolutely supported the widespread belief that it was Andraste herself that Anya saw, for how could a mortal mind fully comprehend and recall at will such an extraordinary miracle?

Anya looked over at Cullen and commented, “Looks like we're finally here. Having fun yet?”

Cullen nodded. “As far as I'm concerned, this is a necessary evil. You needn't worry, I know how to behave, but I have no interest in remaining here any longer than required.”

“I  _ am _ sorry for making you do this, you know. But, honey trap jokes aside, you are critically needed should the assassination occur,” said Anya. Lowering her voice, she continued, “I plan to make it up to you.” 

Briefly, Cullen’s expression flashed desire and anticipation, before returning to stoic neutrality. “My lady is ever gracious.” 

“I have to admit now the tailoring was just for my benefit— need to keep my spirits up while we’re here, after all. I made the whole honey trap thing up; be as grumpy as you like tonight,” Anya muttered under breath to him before straightening up and adjusting her collar.

Cullen shook his head, corners of his mouth twitching. Her brazen sexuality and openness about her desires was both shocking and titillating. Anyone else being so forward would have disinterested him, yet when it was the Inquisitor doing it, he felt wanted and secure. “Thank the Maker the people have no idea what you're really like, Herald of Andraste,” he replied pleasantly. Anya snorted. “No one thanks Him for that more often than I do, Commander.” 

The massive, intricately wrought iron Palace gates opened soundlessly, and the people parted like a stream suddenly faced with a boulder. Whispers hissed all around them, the shushing mixing with the gentle roar of the fountains. Snatches of the commentary passed by them— “...Marcher! Barely better than a notable merchant.” — “....the hubris to bring two sworn enemies of the state…” — “...honestly shorter than I expected.” Cullen wished he had taken the earlier opportunity to share a moment with Anya, realizing now it would be many excruciating hours until he could touch her again. He watched the subtle change in her face which indicated she had entered the Game; he almost pitied her opponents. Almost. 

They dismounted at the horse stalls, and Anya strode on ahead to greet their sponsor, the Grand Duke. Watching her go was always hard, but the enemies here were far deadlier and complex than beasts or bandits. Cullen reassured himself of her competency, recalling that she was, in fact, nobility herself. Through Josephine’s detailed knowledge of the palace and its layout, the group had already decided on strategic placements throughout both the open and closed-to-the-public areas. Cullen was to at first remain in the vestibule and later proceed to the ballroom with Leiliana and the ambassador, wherein they would await the Inquisitor's signal.

Dorian would be watching the balcony garden, Blackwall the area surrounding the entrance to the servant’s quarters, and Iron Bull would circulate and listen for all the secrets that the Ben Hassrath trained can hear. Anya would be the primary investigator and continuously keep moving throughout the palace, searching for the threads to pull in order to unravel the curtain of treachery. 

When Anya and Duke Gaspard finished speaking, she looked over her shoulder and nodded. They were ready to enter the lion's den, and be officially announced to the Court. 

\------------------------

When the clock chimed eleven o’clock, signalling the beginning of the dance, Anya was yet to appear in the main ballroom. Cullen had been waiting for three hours and was getting nervous. Before she departed to investigate the closed areas of the estate, they'd planned on reconvening at ten. Just as the last chime died away, Anya slipped in and was waylaid by the Grand Duke’s sister, Florianne de Chalons. Cullen watched their exchange intently. Surprisingly, they quickly took to the dance floor. Cullen surmised the shift was to prevent being overheard— clever. 

He felt an insistent tap on his shoulder. “Monsieur, would you honour me with a dance?” He looked over to see one of the ladies who'd been following him all evening fluttering her eyelashes under her mask. “No, thank you.” Evidently offended, she left without a word. Relieved, he turned around only to nearly bump noses with another courtier, who asked the same question. 

Variations on this interaction continued, forcing his attention away from tracking the Inquisitor. Cullen's irritation grew. He needed to be paying attention to everyone around Anya and these blithering women were preventing him from doing so. Without warning, one of the ladies whirled him around to face her, giggling madly and pawing drunkenly at him. Cullen was stunned. The woman took his inaction for consent, and she seized his arm and dragged him forcefully towards the centre of the hall. At the last moment before entering the dancefloor, Cullen surfaced from his shock and stopped cold. “Mademoiselle! I say!” He jerked his arm out of her grasp and stalked off towards the balconies.

Cullen felt horribly uncomfortable, smoldering with repressed retorts and swallowed insults. Orlais was a cultural wasteland as far as he was concerned. He felt a hand on his shoulder and whipped around to confront whoever had dared to follow him out here. 

“Woah, hey, it's just me,” said Anya. Cullen froze, then relaxed, his shoulders sagging downward. “Thank the Maker,” he breathed. “These… women... are rabid, it's unbelievable.” He shook his head. “Tell me you've found the attacker.” 

“The problem is I've found too many attackers. Gaspard has brought in mercenaries, there are Tevinter forces here, and Briala has people hidden everywhere. Something's still not adding up. I think the Duchess is involved.” 

“The Duchess?” asked Cullen incredulously. 

“I don't know how she's involved, but she  _ is _ involved, of that I'm certain,” she said. “I need you to watch her closely, and if she disappears, to find or get word to me as quickly as possible.”

Cullen nodded briskly. “Yes, Inquisitor. What's our next move?”

Anya took Cullen's hand and gently led him towards a shaded cluster of bushes on the back corner of the platform. He followed her, intrigued. Once they were fully enveloped by the shadows, she kissed him hard, digging her fingers into his upper arms. “I wanted to kill those sluts with my bare hands,” Anya hissed venomously. She returned to kissing him urgently. Her tongue was aggressive, claiming every corner if his mouth. “This is mine…” Anya rubbed her palms from his chest, down his torso, and over his hip-bones, coming to rest against the tops of his thighs.

Cullen felt dizzy, skin prickling and heart beating hard in his chest. Hearing her say that sent torrents of heat through his body, and every hair on his skin stood up in response. “I...Anya…” She kissed him again, softer this time, one hand sliding back around his body to cup his ass and the other lightly rubbing his crotch.

“I don't want to see you with anyone else… I'm greedy, I can't share you at all. I covet every touch, every smile, every part of you. You're mine… if you want to be.” She broke away and looked at him from under her lashes, grey eyes honestly baring her soul's desire.

“I… I want to be…” he whispered, equal parts afraid and enticed. 

She raised her head and pierced him with her gaze. “Are you sure?”

He instantly recalled the last time she asked him that, when she had a blade against his wrist. This was another life and death choice, equally irreversible and transformative. He tried to think of living without Anya, and his guts flipped. “I'm sure,” he breathed, relief in surrender flooding through him. 

Anya's face glowed with joy. She caressed his cheek tenderly, then pressed her thumb under his jaw hard. “Don't let them touch you again,” she said sweetly.

Cullen gasped and closed his eyes. “I won't, I swear it.” 

She stopped. “Good. I have to go. Save a dance for me, Cullen.” Anya was already gone by the time Cullen's mind returned to his body.  _ What did I just do?  _ he thought. He felt as though he weren't in control of himself when she looked at him like that. And yet… he pulsed with breathless anticipation for her return. His instinct told him this moment of assent was significant, although he didn't fully understand why; Cullen only knew he trusted her implicitly and desired her absolutely. 

\--------------------------

Anya was swaying on her feet by the time she reached the door to her room in the guest wing of the palace. It was half past four in the morning and she finally could escape the ballroom. By Andraste's grace she'd managed to simultaneously avert the assassination of Celene and preserve the empire, reunite the Empress and her lover, and rid Thedas of both of the de Chalon’s treachery. After the victory speeches and obligatory handshaking, Anya managed to slip back outside onto the balcony to get some fresh air. 

Cullen found her there, and confessed how worried he'd been. Anya admitted how relieved she was this was over, and that although she was hiding it she had been very scared indeed. They debriefed each other on the events of the night, until Cullen stopped mid sentence. “Anya, do you know this song? It was one of my favorites as a child,” he said, awash with nostalgia. The court orchestra was playing a sweet little Ferelden reel, the pure, joyous melody inspiring many couples to dance. They finally got their dance then, and the knight and his lady waltzed under fair moonlight to the strains of the orchestra drifting past on the vernal breeze. Cullen departed for bed after that, but Anya was obligated to remain, until now, when the festivities were finally concluded.

She opened the door and stumbled inside. The chamber was beautifully appointed with a four poster bed, matching bedroom suite, and a spacious balcony overlooking the garden. Silhouetted in silver starlight against the darkness there was Cullen— she would know that outline anywhere. His back was to her, flaps of his jacket undone and opened at the sides, as he gazed out over the grounds.

“I'm sorry to wait here like this, I just… needed to see you,” said Cullen, a desperate edge to his voice.

Anya felt suddenly very awake. 

“Why did you need to see me tonight? Aren't you tired?”

Cullen turned to face her, the backlighting of the moon obscuring his features in darkness. His chest was bare under the jacket and his tight pants were unbuttoned at the top, revealing a bit more of his torso’s line of soft golden hair which Anya adored so much.  _ That's ironic _ , she thought.  _ That which I hath wrought in slim fit tailoring has turned against me. _

“Tell me exactly what you meant tonight when you said I was was yours if I wanted to be. I need to know. What do you want out of me? Out of...this? I beg you, be honest.” 

Anya's throat stuck. Her mind and heart had images, desires, but not the words for them. “I want… no, I  _ need _ … to possess you. I need your happiness and your sorrow, your screams and tears in the night… I want it all, good and bad and in between— I want everything. But... you need to want that too, because I can’t change who I am. I’m obsessive, vengeful, jealous and possessive. It will probably be hard to like me sometimes. But oh Maker, Cullen, if you gave yourself to me,” she searched for the words, “You’d never be lonely again.” 

The sounds of the night insects and the fountains broke the hanging silence. Anya was stunned at herself. She'd never put words to emotions so complex before, or with half the elegance. The power of her singular need for him had given her a way to express how she felt.

Cullen wordlessly sank down, and removed his jacket. Anya was struck by how beautiful the moonlight looked on his shoulders, and ached between her legs. He transitioned to his hands and knees and crawled toward her, his muscles moving fluidly under the lunar glow. He reached her and knelt at her feet as though praying.

“With this vow I pledge myself to...Anya Trevelyan. I shall seek no wealth, nor acknowledgement, nor adoration or praise. There is nothing above nor below which could compel me to forsake you. I give myself wholly unfettered into the service of my lady, and my reward is her esteem.”

As he spoke Anya realized he was using the text of the Templar vows to swear himself to  _ her _ . He was reclaiming the once beloved words which had become poison to his soul by offering them to Anya. Cullen sensed her assent to him taking this tack and continued.

“There is no faith without obedience.” He raised his head and looked up at her, his eyes revealing the depth of his devotion to her. The energy between them was palpable. Anya's mark crackled and flickered, the only light in the room besides the soft glow of the heavens. Still kneeling, Cullen placed his hands on the tops of her thighs. “There is no love without sacrifice.”

Anya had never been so aroused in her life. This,  _ this  _ was it. She felt his energy pouring into her, pleading for the comfort and security of her absolute control. To speak now would shatter his confession. 

“There is no order without peace. There is no peace without submission. And there is no submission without faith…” 

Anya looked down at him and saw the powerful trepidation in his eyes. What a terrifying risk to speak these secret longings into reality. She finished the vow for him.

“...thus the foundation of this vow is obedience.” 

Cullen exhaled a shuddering breath of relief. The next step in the true vows was for the initiate to ingest their first draught of lyrium. He saw no reason to change the pattern of the ritual now. Reverently he began to unbutton her trousers. His hands shook as he slid the leather off her hips, revealing her soaked-through smallclothes. “There is no heaven,” his voice was barely a whisper, “but the one between your legs.”

With his teeth he untied the knots at either side of the thin cotton undergarment. He could feel her legs quivering slightly. Cullen placed a soft kiss on her inner thigh and, still shaking with anticipation himself, braced his arms against her legs and backside. 

Unable to prolong the waiting another second, Anya pushed his mouth against her sopping sex. With desperate relief he hungrily kissed, licked and explored her, greedily consuming every drop of her sweet fluids. His tongue parted her pulsing lips and penetrated her. Anya moaned in transcendent pleasure. She ran her fingers through his hair, then seized a fistful and shoved his face deeper between her legs. Cullen gratefully inserted his tongue inside her as far as he could, desperate to make her cum and seal this covenant. 

Her grip tightened and her muscles began to contract. “Yes,” Cullen rasped hoarsely, redoubling his efforts. “Yes, my goddess, my everything…” he sucked on her engorged clit greedily, gasping, his hot mouth consuming her pleasure as though it were keeping him alive. 

“Fuck, fuck…” Anya was barely able to think. “You belong to me… you are mine...” 

Cullen whined in ecstasy, transcending conscious thought. Anya began to orgasm, gushing ejaculate for the first time in her life, unable stop or control the astounding pleasure. Cullen gratefully drank every drop, dragging his tongue over every inch of her sex to ensure not even a tiny dribble escaped him. 

Anya pushed Cullen away from her roughly, and looked down at him as she pulled her trousers back up. His eyes were clouded and unfocused, and he wore an expression of total peace. A lifetime of willing enslavement to the Chantry left Cullen unmoored and despairing without the absolutes that life provided. A lifetime of struggling for autonomy and respect left Anya defensive and insecure with no one to trust. In one another, each found home. 

“Get up,” she said. 

He stood. 

“I'm tired. Prepare me for bed.” 

Cullen pulled the stool out from beneath the ornate vanity in the corner and gestured for her to sit. She did so, and he deftly unpinned her thick hair from the formal style she wore for the ball. He gently detangled each knot and removed every hairpin he came across, and once he had gotten them all he brushed her hair out with the silver handled boar bristle brush provided by the palace.

“When did you learn to do this?” said Anya, closing her eyes in relaxation.

“It  _ is _ strange I’d know my way around a dressing table, I guess. My mother got sick when my sister was already married and moved away. I was the oldest of her remaining children so I helped her.”

“Were you close with your mother?” 

“Very much so. I got my fondness for dogs from her, actually. She was an enthusiastic mabari breeder, and when she died, the pack passed to me. Father sold them when I left for the Order.” He spoke in even tones, but Anya could hear the long scarred over betrayal. She would be getting him a dog, then.

Cullen retrieved a nightgown from the armoire and brought it over to Anya. He removed her boots and stockings, then her jacket and undershirt and finally her still undone trousers. She raised her arms and he slipped the loose silk dress over her head. She smiled at him, and he scooped her up and carried her to the bed, laying her gently onto the plush comforter. “Good night, my lady,” he whispered, turning to leave.

“I don't recall dismissing you?” said Anya.

“You did not, my lady.”

“I don't like sleeping alone in strange places.” Anya turned back the comforter in front of her. “Stay with me, Cullen.” 

“I'll never leave your side again if you ask it of me.” 

Anya smiled and patted the mattress. Cullen stripped to his small clothes and crawled into bed. Anya pulled him into her arms, and her breath caught slightly. It felt so right, so perfect, his solid body pressed against her. She was so content she wanted to cry. She threw caution to the wind. “I love you.”

In her arms, Cullen felt no pain or fear or self hatred. He was simply hers. “I love you now, I loved you before, and I will love you to my dying day. Even if you tire of me, grow contemptuous of me, forsake me for another, still I shall remain at your feet, waiting for your next word. I am yours, Anya Trevelyan, and I always will be.”

“I will hold you to that oath, Cullen Rutherford.” 

Anya felt him trembling slightly, as though with fever chills. “Cullen, are you alright? I brought the tea,” she said in concern.

Cullen rolled over to face her, stroking her hair hair and looking at her with utter devotion.

“I hated myself for wanting this, for so long. What the desire demon did to me… showed me… my mind hated it and my body relished it. I felt… disgusting… like a loathsome creature only capable of feeling anything from the vilest abuse…” Cullen trailed off, and his tone shifted. “I've always needed to have something or someone holding my leash. I need to be a part of something bigger than myself, doing something… worthy.” 

Anya nodded, encouraging him to go on. She was keenly aware of how sacred this revelation was.

“The demon took that… drive to serve... and twisted it into something perverse. She… it… she used me and I… reacted to her. I mean, my body reacted to her. It was.” Cullen shut his eyes, forcing back welling tears. “It raped me. For days. And my mind was screaming for the thing to stop but my body kept responding, no matter how many times I begged it to stop, it mocked me and replied to stop lying and admit I wanted it.” 

Anya's eyes were wide, but she kept her face neutral to help him get all this out. Inwardly she was cold with rage; she wanted to both kill every demon that ever existed, and hold him until the pain went away for good. 

“It stole every private fantasy and intimate desire. It perverted them. But I... survived it. I never let it take my mind. But, I couldn't stand to be touched after that. Knowing what I knew now about myself, what… what I really wanted… I hated it. I hated myself. What kind of man could I be if the only thing that I can really get off on is being  _ used _ ? I'm… repulsive…”

Anya decided to stop that train of thought. “I was fourteen the first time I tied up a boy.”

Cullen's eyes snapped open. “What?”

“You heard me right. Boy my age called Garrett. Stablehand assigned to care for mare. Puberty hit me hard and fast at exactly the same time my education ended, because Father had decreed I must learn to be a wife instead. I wanted to control my own destiny, but my hands were tied by my circumstances. So I, in an impotent symbolic revenge, literally tied a man's hands to a barn lintel and whipped him with a horse crop. I thank my stars he was pleasured by it, because that would have been awful otherwise. I'll always be fond of that boy; we would meet in the barn secretly for years, until he eventually married a lovely seamstress. I hope she knows how he likes to be spanked.”

A thousand thoughts raced through Cullen's mind. _ If there's a first, then how many men  _ has _ she tied up? There are more people who… want this? She isn't disgusted with what I've done?  _

“How did you… figure out that's what you both wanted?” asked Cullen hesitantly. 

Anya furrowed her brow thoughtfully. “I can't really explain it exactly. I mean, we were practically children of course. It was something in his eyes, as cliche as that is. I told him how angry I was at where my life was going. He said ‘Take it out on me,’ and something in his face, or voice, or smell for all I know, told me it was a request, not an offer. The sounds he made... I don't know. No words passed between us, though there really should have.”

She stroked Cullen’s rough cheek, holding his gaze reassuringly. “There are a million ways to be in love, my sweet knight in shining armor. No one way is better just because it's more common. Pain, pleasure, they’re two extremes of the same feeling when you get down to it. Obsession, objectification. When you’ve… been through extreme things, I think you… get addicted to the feeling. Or maybe we’re just born wanting more; I'm not sure. I just know it isn’t wrong.”

The shame and guilt Cullen had been carrying for so long began to dissipate. He let the tears fall slowly, no longer afraid of the depth of his feeling for her. They were soon a tangle of limbs, unable to resist the temptation to become one once again. 

“Wait,” said Anya, pushing Cullen off of her. 

“What? Are you alright?” he asked, concerned.

She cocked an eyebrow. “I'm fine but I have a question. Have you...done anything like this before? Ever let a girl tie you up and have her way with you? Find yourself coming harder when she's making you choke back a scream?” Anya felt his heart beat faster. She loved making him squirm. “Go on, tell me.”

Embarrassed, Cullen looked away. Anya clicked her tongue. “No, no, no, boy. You don’t get to say no to me. Tell me.” She twisted his jaw to make him face her. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of, regardless of the answer. That’s not a request,” said Anya.

“Teresa was in my class at the academy. We grew up together, really. You’re told from day one fraternization among the ranks is absolutely forbidden, but please, you’re housing sweaty teenagers of both sexes in close quarters, things happen. Now Teresa, we were sparring partners from day one, and friends from shortly thereafter. We were both from Honnleath, and talking to her felt like home. She was taller than me when we met,” recalled Cullen.

He shifted over to lay next to Anya, and continued his tale. “In every bloody session, she’d win. No martial art escaped her— the girl was a savant with a blade. But, slowly, slowly, I kept growing up, and one day, the tables began to turn. There was a definite power struggle between us as we aged— sparring was the only sanctioned way to interact physically, and we used it as a means to exorcize the sexual tension so we didn’t go mad, which I feel rather obviously contributed to what… works for me. Eventually, I was taller and stronger than her, but she was smarter, and still kept beating me. Until my seventeenth birthday. I was finally able to beat her… the look on her face. That night she cornered me, slapped me across the face as hard as she could, and kissed me. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other for the rest of our time at the Academy; every time she had a bad day, I was suddenly having a very good day.” Cullen stroked Anya’s hair absently, lost in nostalgia. “She called me puppy. Mostly, bad puppy. She was wicked, and lovely, and forbidden. We were assigned to different battalions upon graduating, and never saw each other again.” 

“Oh, Cullen, that’s heartbreaking! I’m so sorry,” said Anya. She kissed his forehead. “Do you know what became of her? I could find out, maybe…”

“No, no, please don't do that. I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. We said goodbye the night before we began our vigils— she gave me this.” Cullen pulled the blanket down to display a ‘T’ scar on his left hipbone. “We will always have a tiny part of one another.”

“I like her style,” said Anya.

“I have a type, I guess,” said Cullen sheepishly. He shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck, the obvious tell that he was uncomfortable. Anya put a reassuring hand on his waist.

“But since Teresa, no. It’s been thirteen years since I’ve… done that.”

“Do you miss her?” asked Anya. The question wasn’t a trap; Anya just wanted to know more about his inner life. 

“I don’t...strangely. The experience was perfect for what it was. I think of it almost like a beautiful book or maybe a dream… I remember it and I feel happy. The experience was not meant to go beyond exactly where it ended. So no, I don’t miss her, but sometimes I miss being so naive. So hopeful, so… whole. And then I miss that time, and through that, Teresa. If what I just said makes any sense at all,” finished Cullen self consciously.

Anya let out a short, bitter laugh. “Please forgive me, I am not laughing at you, I’m laughing because you asked if it made sense— oh, it makes sense. I would do almost anything to go back to the person I was a few years ago. I was so sure of everything then… the world had rules, and made sense, and I knew who I was.”

Cullen gently caressed her, his hand coming to rest over her heart. “This is the only thing that makes sense.”

Anya’s face softened, disarmed by his sweetness. “You consistently surprise me, Cullen. I look forward to continuing to be amazed.”

Cullen gathered her against him, curving his body around hers protectively. “Sleep, my lady,” he murmured into her ear. “You need to rest, it’s been a long night.”

Anya was asleep in seconds. Cullen nuzzled against her soft hair, inhaling the soothing smell of lavender water. Her steady, reassuring heartbeat against him was the most comforting sensation he could remember ever feeling. For the first time in a very long time, Cullen was safe. He slept wonderfully that night.


	8. Eye of the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fairly gratuitous kink smut

With the Orlesian civil war now ended, the Inquisition pushed farther west into territories previously too unstable to enter. There were many urgent, dangerous problems in Orlais which required immediate intervention, forcing Anya to be away from Skyhold for weeks at a time. She was presently in the Exalted Plains putting down an insurrection of darkspawn, and informing the battalions still fighting there that the war had ended, with Celene victorious. 

In Anya's absence, Cullen became de facto leader of the Inquisition, so he was thankfully generally too busy to dwell on missing her. But at night, he felt her absence more keenly every hour. When Anya was home, he often slept with her in her quarters, where he could be there to fulfill any request or desire. His nightmares couldn't torture him if even while sleeping his mind was on Anya. They would fall asleep late in the night after many hours of discussing the latest news, the day's events, possibilities for the future, and intensely passionate sex. When Anya was away, however, he had to stay in his own quarters and wait sleeplessly for morning. 

Since Halamshiral, Cullen had for the first time in years felt at peace with himself. He had an external identity and purpose now— Anya's knight champion. He meant every word of his vow to her, and the hole left by the past was healing over. Nothing mattered but enforcing her will, pleasing her, supporting her. In a world gone mad, Cullen needed an absolute to hang onto, and that was Anya. 

Beneath his shirt, every day, he wore a thin chain with a small, silver raven pendant hanging from it. Anya gave it to him shortly after they got home from the Winter Palace. “Do you know what banner the House of Trevelyan flies?” Cullen did not. “The raven ascendant. You are in my service, and therefore the service of the Trevelyans, so I had this made for you to wear. You needn’t display it, or explain it if someone enquires, I just want you to have it to remind you to whom you belong.” He felt comforted by its weight against his chest.

A raven had arrived at his window that morning, informing him Anya would be home in a day. Cullen was doubly relieved; of course for her safety, but also for his sanity— leading the Inquisition was exhaustingly political. He had just finished a tense meeting with Solas regarding the best way to resist the Red Templars, and was heading to the rookery via the library when a cheery voice called “Ser Serious! Good to see you.”

Cullen was pleased to see Dorian looking so happy. The last time he'd seen the mage, Dorian had been crying into a bottle and singing along, loudly and off key, with Maryden in the tavern. Anya had confided to Cullen Bull's indecision over the nature of his relationship with Dorian, and the distress it was causing him. Cullen hoped that matter had resolved itself favorably. “Hello, Lord Pavus, how do I find you today?”   
  
“Rather well, in fact. Perhaps too well; I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. I just wanted to see how you’re holding up. And to gossip, really.”  
  
“Eat with me tomorrow, we can catch up,” said Cullen over his shoulder, already disappearing around the corner up the stairs. 

“Hmph, fine,” called Dorian called after him. 

Cullen hurried to the rookery and attached his reply to the freshly rested raven, and sent it forth on its journey back to the Inquisitor. 

_My lady,_ _  
__I am heartened to learn we will see you in Skyhold again soon, and that you are safe. I await your arrival with great anticipation. I will be waiting for our appointment._ _  
__Yours_ _  
___C. R.

\--------------------

Skyhold was quickly becoming a dense, thriving community, receiving more pilgrims and visitors every day. Where once there were unoccupied wings of the keep, they were now struggling to find accommodation for everyone. As a result, finding privacy had become very difficult, particularly for people who did not want to be heard. Shortly after she and Cullen started sleeping together, Anya discovered Sutherland’s unasked for knowledge of their private life, and put a moratorium on any liaisons in the tower office. She'd noticed the boy refused eye contact and could barely manage a “Yes, Your Worship” when spoken to, whereas before she'd have to formally dismiss him to get him to stop talking— so she’d confronted the lad. What followed was one of the most uncomfortable conversations of either party's life.

“Sutherland, what is going on? You're acting very oddly these days.”

The valet went beet red. “Nothing, Your Worship. Everything's fine.” He made to leave.

“Not so fast, recruit. Something's not right. Tell me.” 

“I'm just tired, milady, that's all.”

“Are you not getting enough rest? If we're working you too hard just tell me, someone else can assist Cullen part of the time.”

“No, no, just trouble sleeping. I really need to attend to, ah, a letter that's due to arrive…”

“Well, do you require something to induce rest? Many of our alchemists can make excellent sleeping draughts.”

“Oh. Uh. No thank you,” replied Sutherland as a jolt of dread turned his stomach.  _ How am I going to get out of this conversation? _

“Sutherland, I'm concerned. Tell me what's happening,” said Anya kindly.

“It's just a bit too loud to sleep sometimes…”

He trailed off and made fleeting, significant eye contact before looking intently at the ceiling.

Dawning realization crept over Anya like a spider crawling on the back of her neck. “Ah. I see. It's not, uh, too loud every day is it, or just some evenings… and... lunchtimes?”

Sutherland nodded slowly, eyes the size of saucers. “It's not that I'm upset, or feeling prone… to… gossip about it… I just  _ really _ have to sleep…”

“I completely understand. You don't have to worry about being disturbed again. And… your discretion is both noted, and appreciated. You're free to go.” 

Sutherland had then darted from the room like a startled hare.

The travelling party entered Skyhold at dusk on the day Anya received Cullen's reply. She completed her general post-expedition rituals and ablutions, reconvened with the war council at dinner, (carefully avoiding focussing too much on Cullen, who was obviously struggling to do the same with her) and headed to bed. Anya worked at her desk reviewing the letters she had missed, until finally, midnight arrived.

Heart thumping with anticipation, Anya stealthily made her way across the grounds, carrying a thick sackcloth bag under her arm. Anya had discovered a forgotten chamber beneath the ruined Western Watchtower shortly after the Sutherland incident, and she and Cullen adopted it as a place they could be intimate freely. 

Cullen was already there when she arrived. He had covered the mossy, ruined chamber with candles, filling it with soft flickering light. It was furnished with a simple bed, a thick woollen rug, and a sturdy wooden chest. He was dozing lightly, sitting on the edge of the bed with his head drooping down in loose, well worn night clothes. 

“I'm here, puppy,” said Anya softly. After making sure it wouldn't be awkward or painful, she had taken to calling Cullen Teresa's old name for him. Cullen raised his head sleepily and smiled at her. 

“I missed you,” he said,. 

“I missed you too.” Anya approached him, standing in front of him at the foot of the bed. She ran her fingers through his hair. “I brought things for you. You've been so good taking care of things for me, you earned a night off of being the Commander.” Cullen sighed gratefully. 

“Thank you so much,” he whispered, embracing and nuzzling against her. 

She placed a hand behind his head, continuing to stroke his hair tenderly. “What does my boy want tonight?” Anya put the bag on the ground next her, and withdrew a pair of supple leather cuffs affixed with heavy steel D rings and held them with her teeth. She gently pushed Cullen's chest, and he fell back onto the covers as she slithered atop him, pinning him down with her hips and thighs. His eyes shone with anticipation. “I want to make you happy,” he said.

She deposited the cuffs onto Cullen's chest and retorted, “That's a cop out. I asked, and I expect an answer. Don't be shy now, it's not a trap.” Anya tweaked a nipple playfully, and he bit his lip at the pleasurable sensation. 

“Did you get those for me?” Cullen asked with poorly repressed eagerness as he reached for the cuffs. 

“Now why would you think that?” Anya purred, snatching the cuffs out of his reach.

“I noticed the ceiling and put two and two together…” he pointed at the the shacklebolts above them. 

“Well I could never make love to an idiot, so I'm glad,” she said with a grin. Her face dropped, suddenly intense. “I want to be sure— is this something you want, or does this dredge up unwelcome memories? I want to hurt you,” Anya bit her lip and twisted the nipple she was toying with, making him twitch a bit, “but I don't ever want to  _ harm _ you.”

Cullen's face clouded a bit. “It might… make me remember. But I need this, so badly… I hate that thing for taking my memories of Teresa and making them… wrong. With you… I think you could replace the memories… take them back from her— from it.”

“Cullen, did the demon take her form when it hurt you?”

“Yes,” he whispered, the word dripping with bitter hatred. 

Anya kissed him deeply, soothing the sharp stab of memory. “You're safe, now,” she whispered against his lips, “from everything, except me.” Anya wrapped her fingers around Cullen’s throat as she pressed her body against him; greedily she returned to kissing him, using her tongue to choke him more completely. 

Cullen felt himself falling, falling into the place without the screaming… his mind was quiet now, there was only Anya and the tantalizing closeness of the abyss. Blood rushed in his ears, a peaceful white noise wrapped around the pounding thump of his heartbeat. The abyss was closer now, and the small part of him still in touch with the physical world registered his chest and stomach were starting to spasm.

Anya withdrew her hand and her kiss, and Cullen gasped in lungfuls of air. “Please don't stop, Domina, please let me go back…”

Cullen’s back arched, hips pressing into her, and his stiff cock told her all she needed to know. “What a demanding creature,” hissed Anya with vaguely sinister delight, roughly seizing his ass with both hands to keep him writhing against her. She let go just as abruptly, grabbed the cuffs off of his chest, and went to her bag. She took out a length of smooth steel chain and slipped it back and forth through her fingers, enjoying the metal’s coolness on her ever-burning Mark.

The word Cullen called her, Domina, was the Tevinter word for a highborn, slave owning woman. Cullen had confessed to have been intrigued by the dynamics of Tevinter slave culture to Anya during one of their late night conversations, when they touched upon the topic of childhood secrets. He added that he became  _ particularly _ interested when he learned of the commonly held practice of wealthy women purchasing male slaves for sex and servitude, just as often as their male counterparts did with young women. Cullen vividly recounted his memory of the history and culture lecture in which Ser Amaranthe taught the class about the moral degeneracy of the ancient country to the north. “‘Even the women of the nobility participate in these debauches of the flesh, proud to be seen with a strapping young man on a leash,’ she'd said. I remember her looking at me while I sat there blushing with crossed legs. I thought I'd contained my nervous interest, but apparently not— she knew something was off, but not quite what. Probably looked like I was fighting nausea, or something,” he said chuckling. Cullen then kissed Anya tenderly. “But, how could I not be compelled by the idea? Look at the goddess of a woman I found for enjoying it.”

Anya smiled at the recollection. She loved how buttoned-up, and frankly rather prudish, he was outside of the bedroom, but how completely opposite of that he was in it. She took extreme pleasure from slipping vague comments on their dynamic into casual conversation with others in front of Cullen, and watching him squirm in discomfort as a result. Arguably, her favorite pastime was catching him in an empty hallway or a deserted corner of the grounds and ordering him to do something humiliating or sexual, the terrifying thrill of accidental discovery lurking in the background.

Anya caught his eye, and jerked her chin at the suspension point above them. Cullen’s lips parted slightly in anticipation, and he removed his clothes methodically, piece by piece. It was an almost painfully arousing experience to feel her eyes on him, boring into him with such unrestrained desire— but that just made Cullen want to prolong the moment. At last, Anya could enjoy the sight of her most precious possession in his truest, raw form, the last emotional barrier stripped away with the rest of his clothing. His body glistened in the candlelight, naked, ready and eager before her.

“Stay,” said Anya. She stalked over to the bed and stood on it to chain Cullen’s arms above his head. Anya leaned over Cullen’s shoulder and whispered in his ear, “Ready?”

Cullen nodded with closed eyes and bated breath. Anya drew the small knife at her hip, and made her way back around to face her breathless lover. Ever so lightly she dragged the tip of the blade across Cullen's chest. “How close to the edge shall we go?” she pondered aloud. In response he arched his back into the sensation, biting his lip, and let out a soft sigh of relief.

Anya increased the pressure on his skin, drawing the lightest bloom of blood. She withdrew the knife and licked the red beads off of the furrow. Cullen was shaking ever so slightly, looking down the cliff before the leap, and he pleaded, “Don’t stop, Anya, please take me there, take the pain away…”

Anya inhaled deeply, and exhaled a husky chuckle. “You still smell like lightning sometimes… I love it.” She scraped the knife upward and trailed it across his throat as she dragged her fingers across his stomach. “Mm, tell me what you want, Cullen. I want to hear your confession,” said Anya throatily. She pressed the blade’s tip into the skin at the base of Cullen’s neck where it met his clavicle, just barely beginning to break the skin.

“Ah— fuck, uh,” Cullen strained against the binds. “I’m weak, I'm lustful, I’m angry… it’s wrong, so wrong, I am a sinner... Use me, hurt me, just make the screaming stop…” 

Cullen moaned involuntarily as Anya’s free hand began to stroke his throbbing member. “I don't want to remember who I am anymore,” he pleaded as Anya turned her wicked little dirk on his face, tracing his trademark scar. She slowed her knife as it reached his lip, stood on her tiptoes and kissed him there instead.

Whilst maintaining a gentle, sweet kissing technique she released his cock from her grasp and cruelly dug her nails into the right side of his chest. Cullen paused the kiss, opened his eyes and groaned in abandon as her fingers ripped into his flesh. “I forgive you, Cullen. But you must do penance to earn absolution.” She left him suspended there, lowered her knife and backed up. After a final rummage in the sackcloth bag, Anya produced a thick leather strap. She snapped it across his stomach sharply, eliciting a strained cry. Cullen could stand any amount of impact punishment and enjoy it, but when presented with the lightning crack pain from whips and strikes he folded quickly, dropping almost instantly into the twilight state of powerless bliss her attentions induced. 

Anya kept the pace of the session relatively steady, ramping up the intensity slowly and with restraint. With each crescendo of torture, Cullen would fall a little further down the well of consciousness. Anya was exhausted, but full of adrenaline and the sharp, focussed mental acuity that came with violence. Cullen’s entire back side from thighs to shoulders was deepening to a purplish red bruise, dotted with ruptured capillaries and small cuts. Anya marvelled at how he accepted the merciless punishment with an open, receptive body and mind, even when she slapped him across the face and bloodied his mouth in the process. 

“You’re so beautiful when you’re bleeding, puppy,” said Anya. She stood in front of him, evaluating the damage done. She had been careful to only inflict quickly-healing injuries. The only one that concerned her was the swollen lip:  _ that _ one might invite questions. She’d have to think of an excuse for him. Cullen was hanging like a broken marionette, knees buckled and head hanging limply onto his chest. He looked up at his saviour with adoring eyes. “I am?” 

Anya smiled beatifically. “Yes, you are. You did so good. I’m very proud.” She leaned in and kissed him, savoring the metallic tang of his bleeding lips. “Do you feel better?” she asked.

“Yes, Domina,” he breathed, eyes trying to focus on her. 

“Hey, hey,” Anya murmured, gently tapping Cullen’s cheeks. “Anybody home? Are you ok, puppy?” 

Cullen blinked slowly, and tried to nod, but his neck ended up just lolling around. 

“Okay, we're done now,” said Anya. She went and unhooked his binds, and Cullen crumpled to the floor. She grabbed a blanket and threw it over his spent body as she crawled in next to him. “Hey, puppy, I'm here,” she said soothingly, stroking his skin and kissing his shoulders lightly. Anya pulled Cullen against her, holding him tight and feeling his heartbeat become steady again. 

Cullen was suspended in space, floating, free. He felt separate from his body, a soul outside of the constraints of the flesh. He nuzzled against Anya's warm, soft body. “I love you, Anya.”

“I love you too. Bedtime now?”

“No… not unless you want to, mistress?” 

“I don't want to.” Anya squeezed Cullen against her. He felt so right against the hollow of her chest.

Cullen rolled over and shifted up to be nose to nose with Anya. “You're perfect.” He gently cupped her face and kissed her. “You saved me tonight. I could feel my mind melting; I've no idea how you do this, Anya.” His hands roamed down across her chest and he kissed her deeply, his tongue sensually exploring her mouth. She broke away and smiled seductively. “I'm just that good,” she purred.

“I need you,” he rasped against her throat. “I need to be inside you, Domina.” His rough, warm hands continued down her body. He rubbed circles on her thighs, eliciting goosebumps and a little moan from Anya. 

“Fuck me, cockslave,” she growled, thrusting her hips against him.

“Oh fuck,” he gasped, rubbing the tip of his cock against her slick clitoris. “Thank you, mistress…” he groaned as he slipped inside her hot, throbbing sex. 

Cullen fucked her with long, lingering penetrations and withdrawals, holding her sides to angle her body to get him in as far as possible. Anya yelped and covered her mouth, trying to stifle the outburst the powerful sensations induced. She was completely filled with his thick member, and she began to feel the building tension of oncoming orgasm with every thrust.

“I want to make you come, mistress,” said Cullen breathlessly between kissing her breasts and neck with wet, lingering lips. 

Cullen couldn't think, only feel. Her velvet skin rubbing against his and the mind blowing pleasure of being inside her, mixed with the pulsing pain of his bruised and bleeding body, was the most ecstasy he had ever felt. 

Anya's muscles contracted and twitched around him, and she dug her nails into his already savaged skin. “Oh, yes, good boy, just like that,” she hissed through her teeth into his ear. Cullen fucked her harder and faster, sucking on one nipple and stimulating the other with practiced fingers.

A strangled yelp burst out of Anya. “Come for me Cullen, I want us to come together,” she whined, gushing freely around his straining cock. 

“Yes mistress, I'm coming, oh fuck, I’m coming for you,” he said, his body on fire with pleasure. With a shuddering groan, he came inside his goddess, and hot, wet ropes of cum dripped out of her as she moaned in bliss. 

“You're such a good boy, puppy. Did you like fucking me like that?” Anya rolled her hips, making his sensitive member throb painfully inside her. 

“Maker, yes… I don't deserve your perfect pussy, mistress, I'm so grateful you let me fuck you.” 

Exquisitely slowly, Cullen pulled out, exhaled a shaky breath and laid down. He slipped two fingers between her cum covered lower lips and rolled her clit between them. Anya couldn't contain herself, writhing and moaning with abandon and pleasure. “Yes, don't stop, I'm gonna come again, ah,” Anya whimpered. Cullen grunted and slipped the dripping wet fingers into her. She gasped and, after a few rough strokes, squirted around his crooked, teasing fingers. Anya bit her lip as her hips bucked uncontrollably into him, holding on for dear life and entrusting herself to his care as she rode the waves of ecstasy their mutual obsession created. They broke away and looked at each other, exposed and vulnerable in their primal states.

“Clean it up, now,” said Anya as she propped herself up against the side of the bed. She raised her knees and spread her legs, a little sound of bliss escaping her as their combined cum dribbled out of her body. Cullen hungrily lapped at the fluids, slurping greedily and savoring the taste of their mixed emissions. Once he'd gotten every drop of pleasure, Cullen kissed the raw, tender skin there with feather light pressure. 

Anya plunged her tongue into his mouth, pleased to taste them both there. “I love you, Cullen,” she said into his lips, “I love you so much.” 

“You're my life, Anya. I belong to you. Your love is more than I could have ever prayed for,” he replied, his voice hoarse.

His eyelids fluttered and he placed a hand on her cheek, stroking her hot skin with his thumb absently.

“Sleep now, puppy,” she said, squeezing the hand on her face. 

“Thank you… mistress…” he breathed; Cullen was asleep in under a minute. Anya felt absolute joy and contentment as she watched him resting so deeply in her arms. When she was certain he was fully asleep, Anya slipped out from under the blankets and crawled into the bed. It made Cullen happy to wake up at her feet, and she didn't desire the backache sleeping on the floor with him would grant. Anya drifted to sleep in the cozy bed while Cullen dozed on the rug below her. 


End file.
